


Left Turn of Fate

by eideann



Series: Highways & Byways [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU pre-canon, Alternate History, Amnesia, Brothers, Bullies, Cold Weather, Episode Related, Flashbacks, Foster Care, Gen, High School, Night Terrors, Past Torture, S4xE3 In the Beginning, Scarification
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-05-31 08:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 137,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6463432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eideann/pseuds/eideann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean met Azazel in 1973 during his jaunt there with Castiel, the timeline was forever altered in ways that no one could have foreseen. Sammy embraces the hunting life, Dean ends up on a milk carton, and John gets a new set of priorities - and an unexpected partner on the hunt.</p><p>Set in 1996-97.</p><p>Not a high school AU, portrayed as when Sam and Dean actually go to high school. (summary edited 4/28/16)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains spoilers through to the early part of Season 5, though most don't turn up till later chapters.

_Dean had walked for miles, it felt like, but he knew it couldn't really have been that far. He was sore all over, but his left side hurt worst of all. He hugged his ribs and kept going doggedly, though. He had to get further away. He passed another car pfarked on the street and sighed. He was short for twelve, not tall enough to drive a car, even if he did know how to start one without keys. He'd thought about hitching a lift, but it was late – or early – and no one was around. Not even that yellow-eyed guy. Dean looked around nervously. He hoped the yellow-eyed guy hadn't come back._

_He needed to go . . . where? Someone would be waiting for him, and he needed to find them, if only he could remember._

_He stayed to the edges of the pools of light cast by the streetlights. He wanted to have the option of choosing who to approach, so he needed to stay unseen as long as he could. Not that there seemed to be anybody to be seen by in any of these warehouses. He was getting tired, and the pain in his side made it harder to walk. Finally, he saw a street up ahead that actually seemed to have some traffic on it. He tried to speed up, but he couldn't keep it up long without seeing little flashy lights in his eyes. He wasn't sure if they were real or if it was in his head, so he just kept going._

_By the time he reached the thoroughfare, he was past the ability to make decisions. He saw a lighted window and made for it mindlessly. Inside he saw a woman's face. Her eyes went wide, and then he lost his balance and fell over._

_Footsteps came near, and he started to try and push himself away._

_"Call 911," said a female voice. She sounded upset. Dean wanted to tell her everything was okay now, but he seemed to be floating in his head. Hands reached out and carefully lifted him from the ground. "My God, George, his left side is all blood."_

_Dean looked up at the face of the man who held him. He was black, and Dean didn't think he knew him. "Where's my dad?" he asked weakly._

_The dark eyes dropped to his, worry and concern in them. "I don't know. What's your name?"_

_"Dean," he said._

_"Dean what?"_

_The question had too many answers in Dean's head. "Dean," he repeated, knowing that one for certain._

_"All right, Dean. You're safe now, and we'll find your dad."_

_Safe. He felt safe. His eyes fluttered closed, and he found he couldn't open them again._

* * *

Sam Winchester hated school anymore. He and his dad never stayed anywhere long enough for him to get to know anyone. Everyone else always had friends and shared history, and told jokes that made sense to them but not to him. He loved the learning, he could never get enough of that. He just wished he didn't have to put up with the other kids.

He shouldered his pack and walked out of the school building. The bullies that waited in the park around the corner for their prey had learned that he wasn't to be messed with. That was one legacy of being his father's son that he could live with. As he strode past the park, he could hear the sounds of a fight going on. He glanced over casually to see what was up.

Three of the meanest bastards had all ganged up on Dean Hunter, a guy from Sam's PE class. He was kind of a pretty boy, but he acted all tough. Sam had seen him the day before defending one of the geekier kids from Tom Carpenter, the ringleader of the jackasses who were now shoving him around.

Sam started to turn away. Dad always emphasized keeping a low profile. As he walked on, he heard a grunted comment from Dean. "Takes real men to go three on one!" This was followed by the distinct sound of air whooshing out after a gut punch. Sam winced. He knew how that hurt. He slowed again and turned around, walking backwards now that the trees shielded him from the group a little.

"We're going to teach you to interfere, Hunter."

"I already know how, thanks," Dean gasped. Tom's eyes narrowed and the other two guys grabbed Dean by the arms as Tom prepared to punch Dean square in the face.

Sam couldn't help himself. He was running into the fight before he knew what he'd done. As Tom Carpenter drew his arm back, Sam caught him a wicked blow to the gut. Tom doubled over, and one of the guys holding Dean let go and grabbed for Sam. He heard his dad's voice in his head. "If you ever can't avoid a fight at school, Sam, remember, don't fight to kill." Sam dodged the hand and swept the guy's legs out from under him. Dean had somehow gotten away from the boy who'd been holding him, and the two of them were going at it. Sam started to go help him, but the guy he'd downed tripped him. He rolled to his feet and came up facing Tom.

"You little twerp!" Tom growled. Sam dodged the blow Tom aimed for his head easily, but the guy he'd knocked over had gotten up. He came up behind Sam and grabbed him around the arms, trying to immobilize him. Tom grinned and pushed his sleeves back up. Sam figured that he could ease up on the brakes a little when he was facing two kids who were four years older than him. He brought the heel of his heavy boot down hard on the foot of the guy holding him, but the guy just started swearing and hung on tighter. Tom grabbed his shoulder and Sam knew he was getting hit, but then Dean came out of nowhere and tackled Tom to the ground. Sam slid his arm backwards between his body and the bully's. He couldn't hit the guy, he wouldn't be able to get any force behind it, but he could grab. The guy let out a strangled shriek and let go once Sam had a grip on his junk. Sam gave his wrist a sharp twist before he let go, and the guy stumbled backwards, clutching himself.

Dean and Tom were sort of wrestling on the ground. Tom bulked bigger than Dean, but it looked like a standoff. Sam shook his head. Dean was enthusiastic, no doubt, but his technique was crappy. Dean shoved Tom away, scrambled to his feet and grinned down at his opponent, clearly ready for more.

"Tom, let's go!" called one of his buddies. Sam turned and saw that Dean had given the one guy a black eye, and his recent attacker was still cradling his crotch. Sam looked over at Tom and gave him a wicked grin. Tom shoved at him, but Sam just sidestepped and put out a foot to trip him. Without looking back, Tom scrambled up and all three of them left the park.

Dean was breathing pretty hard. Sam picked up his backpack, which he'd tossed aside automatically on his way into the fight. He turned back towards Dean, who was bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Sam wasn't sure what to say. He really expected Dean to be pissed at him for getting involved at all. Older guys usually were.

Dean looked up with a faint and bloody grin. "Thanks for the help, kid," he said, "but you shouldn't have gotten involved. Now they'll be after your ass, too."

"My name is Sam, not kid," Sam said, irritated by the response. "And no, they won't."

"What makes you think that, Sammy-boy?"

The nickname brought up memories for Sam that he ruthlessly suppressed. "Because I've already gone a couple rounds with Tom Carpenter, and he didn't like the way his face looked after," he said truculently.

Dean blinked at him. "You're the one who screwed up his face?" Sam shrugged. "Well, aren't you a tough little squirt!"

"I'm not that little," Sam retorted. "Catch ya later." He turned away, annoyed with the older boy.

"Sure," Dean said. "See you at school, Sammy."

Sam hitched his backpack higher and didn't turn around.

* * *

Dean rubbed at his lips and found the cut spot with a hiss. Getting rescued by someone only a little more than half his height was kind of embarrassing. On the other hand, Tom, Joe and Larry wouldn't be talking about it much either. And it was no wonder that Tom hadn't said boo about how his face had gotten bloodied. He snorted. That Sammy was one tough little kid.

He reached Lou's and went inside. "Hey, Dean," Lou said. "Go work on the Citation."

"Sure." Dean took off his jacket and pulled on his coverall and went out to work on the little car. It belonged to Sharon Wright, one of the teachers at school. She was no more than twenty-five, had the body of a centerfold, and a sweet face. How any guy was supposed to concentrate in her class, he wasn't sure. He'd had her for Math last year, and his grades had been a total joke.

"Who've you been fighting with?" Lou asked after awhile.

"Guess," Dean said sourly. Lou was a great guy to work for. Good hours, good pay, and he understood what was really going on in this town better than most.

"That Carpenter boy thinks he owns the town," Lou said irritably.

"He's got two football trophies," Dean said. "I think that's what that means."

Lou rolled his eyes. "You should hear his dad go on about it at Rosie's."

Dean looked up, grinning and wiping his hands. "I'd rather not, thanks. I hear enough about him at school." He gestured towards the car. "Turn her over for me, would you?"

The Citation finished, he went on to Mr. Reid's Suburban. Around nine, Lou said, "You've got school tomorrow, kid, get on home."

"Another ten minutes and I've got this one running," Dean said.

"I've heard that a time or two from you," Lou replied. "Go home. It will still be here tomorrow."

Dean sighed, but he knew when Lou had made his mind up. "See you tomorrow at four, then," he said, closing the hood on the Suburban.

Dean left the garage, but he didn't go home. It wasn't like Louise and Jake cared what he did, so long as he didn't endanger the checks they got from the state. And, all in all, it was better to stay out of Jake's reach as much as possible.

He considered going by Mary Beth's, but it was a school night and her father had a shotgun. Lou's was towards the edge of town, so Dean wandered out into the woods that surrounded them. It was chilly, but it beat going home. He couldn't wait to get out of this one-horse town. Then he'd figure out who he was and where he came from. All he knew for sure was that his first name was Dean, he had a family out there somewhere – unless something had happened to them in the meantime – and the things that most people didn't believe in, like ghosts and werewolves, were real. He reached up to his neck and pulled the cord of his amulet out, fingering the only link to his past that he had left. It was weird looking, like a head out of a mythology textbook, so he kept it under his shirt, but he never took it off. Every time the cord started to wear out, he found a new one.

He tucked it back into his shirt and kept walking. These woods were supposed to be haunted, but he'd never seen any sign of it. The kids told wildly varying stories about the ghosts, embroidered to freak people out and get girls to scream. Chain rattling, moaning spirits who turned your hair stark white upon seeing them. One guy had talked about zombies. Another kid said there was something in there that killed people. Dean figured it was all nonsense. Yeah, ghosts existed, but not every stupid ghost story was real.

He saw a flicker of white up ahead, and he stopped moving. His hand went into his jacket pocket to touch the little baggy of salt he kept on him. The few friends he had thought he was just obsessive about making sure his fries were salted just right, but one of the weirder things he remembered was that ghosts and some of the other nasty things that went bump in the night didn't much like salt.

Curiosity warred with common sense, and curiosity won. He kept going deeper into the woods in the direction of the white flicker. It stayed beyond his sight, just barely, for a long way. Then he came around a tree, face to face with a girl. She looked to be about his age, with chubby cheeks and an impish smile. Her eyes were pale blue, her hair was blond, and she was wearing a dress with short sleeves and some kind of lace collar.

"Hi," she said. "Looking for me?"

"Sort of, I guess," Dean replied, wondering if there was a house nearby. He wasn't sure exactly where he was at this point.

She turned away and went around another tree, then peered out at him. "Want to give me a kiss?" she asked coquettishly.

Dean was intrigued. "Sure," he said, but he didn't take his hand out of his pocket. She smiled and beckoned to him with her finger. He walked over and put a hand on her arm. It felt incredibly cold. "You must be freezing." He took his jacket off and wrapped it around her shoulders. "Where do you live?"

"Robin Road," she replied, and Dean shook his head. "How'd you get out here in the woods, then? I mean, why?"

"Aren't you going to kiss me?" she asked, leaning back against a tree, looking up at him from under her eyelashes.

"Why not?" he said. "Then I'll walk you home." He put his hands on either side of her head on the tree trunk and leaned close. Just before their lips touched, he caught a weird expression on her face, almost predatory, and he flinched back involuntarily.

"What?" she asked. "Am I not pretty enough for you?" Abruptly, the attractive face puffed out and turned blue. He noticed a weird, bruised ring around her neck that hadn't been there before, and he took several steps back. She came towards him, and he scrabbled in his pocket for the salt. Opening the baggy, he flung it at her and she vanished. Dean turned around and took off running in the direction he'd come from, and he didn't stop till he'd reached the house.

He slipped in through his bedroom window and stripped down to his boxers. Evidently, he'd been wrong to dismiss the ghost stories, though that was nothing like anything he'd heard from his peers. Maybe he should ask Lou.

His heart still racing, he closed his window and locked it, then lay down in bed. After a moment he realized that he was being stupid. He got up, pulled on his robe, and went into the kitchen, moving as quietly as he could. He got the salt canister out of the cupboard and refilled his baggy. At that point, he noticed that he was hungry despite the scare, so he put the salt in the pocket of his robe and made himself a sandwich.

He was just putting his plate in the sink when he heard it. The door to their bedroom creaked. Dean tried to hurry so he could avoid Jake, but it was Louise who came into the kitchen. She glowered at him. "Where the hell have you been?" she shispered. Dean knew what that meant. Jake was passed out. Louise wouldn't risk waking him any more than Dean would.

"Around," Dean said, partly because he wouldn't give her the correct time of day, and partly because he knew it pissed her off.

"I am responsible for what you get up to, boy," she said. "What crap have you been pulling at this time of night?"

Dean rolled his eyes and left the kitchen. She didn't follow him. She wasn't above picking at him, but she didn't really care what he'd been up to. She knew the score. He was a month away from freedom, and he wasn't risking that for anything. For a minor misunderstanding with the law just about a year back, he'd been sentenced to a year's probation, and the court had released him back to foster care on the understanding that he stayed put until he was of age. If he wandered off, he served the rest of his term in juvie. The birthday selected for him by the great state of Georgia was three weeks off, and he wasn't taking any chances.

He hit the sack, and for the first time in ages, he dreamed of the yellow-eyed man who had tortured him and screwed up his memories.

* * *

Sam woke up when a weight depressed the springs of his bed and made him start to roll off. He glanced quickly at the alarm clock. Twenty minutes till it went off. He looked up at his dad sleepily. "Yes sir?"

"Didn't mean to wake you early, tiger," John said. "But I have to be going."

Sam sat up, shaking off the vestiges of sleep. "A job?" he asked. His father nodded. "Can I come?"

"I told you, sixteen. That's still three years off."

"Just under two and a half," Sam corrected automatically.

John rolled his eyes and tousled Sam's hair. "I'm going to be gone at least a week. You can manage that, right?"

Sam nodded confidently, though he hated being left alone. That was when he missed his brother the most, when he was stuck alone in some hole in the wall and there was no one to talk to. Or fight with. Or anything. "I'll be fine, Dad," he said.

"Good boy," John replied. "I left the money in the usual spot. See you in a week." He got off the bed and a minute later, Sam heard the front door open and close. He got up, switched off the alarm, and started getting ready for school. Dad had left kind of a mess in the kitchenette, so Sam cleaned it up and made his own breakfast.

How he felt about staying alone was kind of weird. After he turned eleven, Dad had finally let him come along on his travels again, and that had made him feel great, right up until he got set up in a motel room and watched Dad drive away to hunt. He hadn't realized how much more he would miss Dean during the days he spent on his own.

First period was Algebra with Miss Wright. He filed into the classroom with the other kids, glad that there were one or two other boys who were shorter than him. He passed for a really short fourteen with his classmates because mentioning that he'd skipped a grade always caused problems. He sat down in his assigned seat and tried not to let the fact that Miss Wright was wearing one of those see-through shirts over a tank top distract him from his book.

English next, then PE, then lunch. Sam went through his day without impacting on anyone much. He saw Dean between fourth and fifth periods, chatting up Mary Beth Hanson, showing off his battle wounds. Sam snorted. Somehow he doubted that Dean was mentioning the help he'd gotten from the 'tough little squirt.' It wouldn't be real impressive.

History, usually one of his favorite subjects, was hard to listen to with Mr. Walker teaching. He droned like a fly, buzzing on and on about names and dates and battles. Instead of listening, Sam tended to just read the book. He hadn't used this one before. One thing about jumping states every two or three weeks, he did get to see a lot of different textbooks.

When the day was over, he trudged back toward the apartment. All he had to look forward to this evening was his workout and homework, and whatever crap was on TV. He sighed. As he passed the park, a bunch of guys emerged from it and surrounded him. Evidently Tom hadn't taken yesterday's whipping well at all. Sam looked around at the taller boys who were herding him off the street and into the park.

"You need to learn your place, little boy," Tom said.

"Right," Sam said. He turned around and chose his target. Skip Martin. He wasn't the weakest of the bunch, but he was the weakest that gave Sam a straight shot to his route home. He turned back around to face Tom. "King of my little kingdom," he said with a cocky grin, and then he whirled, knocked Skip to the ground and took off. The other thing he was good at – that Dad had insisted he get good at – was running. He peeked over his shoulder after a block and saw that none of them was chasing him. They were clustered in a group, laughing. Sam slowed to a walk and rolled his eyes.

Thursday was done, Dean thought as he left the school. Just one more day till the weekend. Not that weekends were anything to brag about in little Fort William, Georgia. Still, it meant no school, and there was nothing wrong with that.

He glanced at his watch. He had twenty minutes before he had to get to Lou's. Mr. Walker had held him back after class last period and lectured him about his grades, so he was running a little late. He really hoped the jackasses weren't hanging out at the park again. Just as he turned the corner, he heard a startled shout, and he jogged forward to see Sammy burst out of a circle of seven guys, right over the top of Skip Martin. The others clustered together and started laughing, like they'd pulled some major feat, and Dean thought they were idiots. He was glad to see Sammy wasn't just tough, he was smart. No point in sticking around when you couldn't win.

The posse didn't seem interested in him, fortunately, because he wasn't sure he had the ability to escape. Maybe he should catch Sammy some time after school and see if the kid could teach him some tricks.

Lou was working on paperwork when Dean got there. "Finish up that Suburban, would you? Then we can work together on the Mustang."

Dean's eyes widened. "You mean Mr. Carpenter's Mustang?" he asked reverently. He might not like the man, but that car was a thing of beauty.

"The very same," Lou said. "Hurry on up. You said ten minutes last night, as I recall."

Dean nodded and hastened out to the Suburban. It took him no time at all to get her up and running, and then he feasted his eyes on the red convertible '67 Mustang. It wasn't quite mint, Carpenter had put a CD player in and had the seats redone, but the engine was almost perfect.

It didn't really take two of them to do an oil change, but the pleasure of handling such fine machinery was one of the reasons Dean loved this job. While they waited for the oil to drain, he turned to Lou. "Hey, you know the kids are always saying that the woods off to the southeast are haunted. You put any stock in that?"

Lou turned to look at him. "Those crazy stories the kids tell are nonsense, Dean. You know that."

"Yeah, the stories they tell are. I don't buy that there's a masked guy with a chainsaw in there hacking people up."

Lou's eyes widened. "Is that what they're saying now?"

Dean shrugged. "One of the wilder stories, yeah, but those kinds of things usually come from somewhere."

Lou gave him a sidelong look. "There is something, a tragedy, it happened a long time ago. People don't like to hear it talked about."

"I won't say a word," Dean said.

"Just stay out of those woods this time of year," Lou replied.

"Well, thing is, I kind of already went in," Dean said, and Lou turned to stare at him. "Last night. I didn't know I wasn't supposed to."

"Did you . . . see anything?" Lou asked in a low voice.

Dean decided to play it cool. He shrugged. "I saw something, but I'm not sure what."

"Well, don't you go back out there. Most of the time we don't have much trouble with kids going out into the woods in December, but every so often the boys do it on a dare. And when that happens, at least one of them dies."

Dean blinked. "Really?" He looked back at the car. "But what happened, all those years ago? What's doing it?"

Lou shook his head. "It was close on fifty years back," he said. "I was seven or eight when it happened. The war had been over a few years, as I recall. Nancy was seventeen. She babysat me a time or two when my parents went out for a movie or something." Lou paused, lost in thought.

"But, what happened?" Dean asked.

Lou grimaced. "She killed herself," he said. "Hung herself in the woods. They're private property, you know, belong to the Owens family."

Dean shook his head. "I didn't know that."

"My mother said it was a Judgment." Dean clearly heard the capital letter in the way Lou said the word. "Zachary Owens was a young stud back then –"

"Him?" Dean exclaimed incredulously.

"Years and gravity do terrible things to a man's body," Lou said with a grin. "Yeah, he was a hell of a looker back then, and he played games with the girls in town whenever he got the chance. I don't know this for fact, but my mother said Nancy was one of them. She'd . . . someone had certainly . . . after the autopsy it came out that she was pregnant, and hanging herself on that land looks mighty like a statement, wouldn't you say?"

Dean nodded. "What did she look like?" he asked.

"Oh, she was pretty," Lou said with a faraway look. "Blond hair, blue eyes, always could be counted on for fun when she looked after me."

"So then, out in the woods nowadays . . ."

"People see her out there, always this time of year, I guess because that's when she did it. And boys die, always boys who've played around some."

The phone rang, and Lou walked swiftly away. Dean went down on his knees to check if the old girl had stopped draining.

* * *

When Sam got to school the next day, he noticed that people were staring at him. Not everyone, but a lot of people. He got into the bunch of kids clustered around Miss Wright's door, and one of his classmates, Danny, tapped him on the shoulder. Sam turned, not sure what to expect. "I hear you should try out for the track team," Danny said. From the way he and the other kids laughed, Sam knew it wasn't a compliment. Trust a bunch of asswipes like that to spread the story about him running.

Sam shrugged and turned away, ignoring the sniggers. He wouldn't be here long enough for it to matter. He just needed to avoid any fights that might cause the principal to call his dad, since his dad wasn't around to call.

The day continued like that. Kids that hadn't had any slot to peg him under apparently decided on coward, and Sam ground his teeth. Lunchtime rolled around, and Sam reminded himself that it was Friday. Two days of no school – which also meant two days of nothing to do. Maybe when Dad came back after this job, they could move on.

He went down to the snack bar outside the cafeteria. There were a couple of tables in a square there. It was crowded, like always, and he got in line. A murmur of anticipation went up, and he looked around to see what was causing it. When he saw Tom Carpenter and a couple of his asswipe friends, he realized that everyone was expecting some big confrontation.

He turned his back on them, and Tom grabbed the back of his shirt and turned him around. "See, I told you he was a coward!" he crowed. "Running away like a little girl."

Sam itched to put him on the ground, but it was one thing to fight in the park after school. Fighting on campus during lunch was another. If someone called his dad, they were in deep shit. He glowered impotently up at Tom, but he didn't do anything.

"Huh," said a voice from the other side of the square. "From where I stood, it looked like you were the coward, Carpenter." Sam looked up and saw Dean leaning casually against one of the tables, his arm around Mary Beth Hanson's shoulders.

"You stay out of this, Hunter," Tom snarled.

"Because, where I come from, when seven hulking football players gang up on a kid his size, it doesn't make them brave."

"He ran."

Dean snorted. "Hell, I'd have run in the same situation." He stood up straight, dropping his arm from Mary Beth's shoulders. "So would you, if anyone could be found who was that much bigger than you." He gestured, and Sam watched eyes widen as the kids around him took in the size difference between him and Tom.

Sam grabbed Tom's wrist and pushed hard on the pressure point with his thumb, and a second later, Tom's hand popped open. Sam got out of reach, the kids behind him getting out of his way, like they were preparing for a fight. He so did not need this. Much as he appreciated the back up, he did not need to get into a brawl at school.

"You don't know shit, Hunter," Tom said.

"I know you, Larry and Joe tried to beat the crap of out me on Wednesday, and you were doing a pretty good job of it till Sammy there showed up." Sam turned his head and stared at him, a little startled by that level of honesty. Mary Beth didn't seem at all surprised. She grinned at him.

"I'm going to get you, Hunter," Tom growled, and he and his friends left the area as Dean let out a sarcastic 'ooo' sound.

Sam faded back and left by a different route. As he went, he heard someone ask, "What do you mean?"

"Sammy there took –" Dean broke off. "Where did he go? Anyway, Sammy –"

Sam went to his science class where Mr. Rudzik could always be counted on to hang out during lunch. The teacher looked up and gave him a little wave when he entered, and Sam found a seat at one of the tables. Pulling out the copy of _Romeo & Juliet_ he'd gotten in English that morning, he started reading.

No one had ever stood up for him like that, not since . . . he gulped . . . not since Dean – his Dean – had gone missing. His Dean had even called him Sammy. It felt really good, but it also felt dangerous. He had to be able to stand on his own, because Dean was gone, and he wasn't coming back. At least that's what Dad said. Bobby had done every scrying spell he knew how to do, looking first for a live kid, and then for a corpse. Sam wasn't supposed to know about the second search, but he'd sat against the wall outside the library and listened to them talking. Nothing had turned up, and his father had asked Bobby what the scrying spell would do if Dean had gotten eaten. Bobby didn't say anything for a long time, and Sam had wondered if he'd shrugged or something.

Once again, Sam turned over the things that could have eaten his brother in his head. Werewolves left bodies behind, so it couldn't be that. It might have been a wendigo, they took the whole person and ate them slowly. He controlled a shudder. Or a rugaru. Or a ghoul, but there were no Dean sightings in Butte that summer, and no sign of ghouls. Sam had made a special study through Bobby's books, looking for things that ate people and left nothing to scry for. He wanted to know what it was, so he could find it and kill it.

Other kids started filing in, and Sam pulled his attention away from thoughts of his long missing brother and focused on the board.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean walked up to Lou's place for work at ten on Saturday morning, but the door was locked and there was a sign up. _Family emergency, closed till Monday, 9:00 am._ Dean went around behind the shop and saw that Lou's old car was gone. Sighing, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and contemplated what he was going to do.

He'd had a couple of slices of toast that morning, but he could always eat. A meal at the diner downtown wouldn't set him back too much. He walked in and took a seat at the counter. Patty was working front, and she walked up to him. "Coffee?" she asked, and he nodded. "So, have you heard?"

"Heard what?"

"Tom Carpenter's dead."

Dean's jaw dropped. "What? What happened?"

"No one knows for sure," she said with a little shiver. "He and his friends went out into the woods last night, and I guess they got separated, and when the found him this morning, he was dead."

"The Owens property?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

"Lucky guess," Dean said, feeling sick. Suddenly he wasn't so sure he wanted breakfast. He ordered anyway and ate mechanically. Tom was a douchebag, sure, but he didn't deserve to die. Not like that. He knew there had to be a way to make Nancy stop, and he had this feeling he'd once known how. He hated the way his mind was fractured. Before the summer of 1991 and after. Everything before was locked up tight as a drum. The shrinks said it was trauma from that son of a bitch cutting on him. Dean thought it might be more.

He left neatly folded bills on the counter and went outside. The sky was sunny and bright, but he felt leaden. Maybe there'd be something in the library, something no one would think twice about because they didn't really believe in all that crap. He walked down there and went inside. He'd been in a time or two before because of school reports or rainy day canoodling in the upstairs stacks. Mrs. Johnson, the librarian, gave him a stern look as he passed. He went to the computer and looked up books on ghosts. The first few pages he got were all ghost stories, and most of them were in the kids section. He pursed his lips. Maybe he was on the wrong track. He needed the occult. He typed that on the line, and got a whole bunch of weird stuff, and a Dewey decimal number. 133.1.

He went to that section of the shelves and started pulling books off at random. He flipped through a couple, looking at contents pages, but nothing seemed to be quite what he wanted. He needed to figure out about this ghost in particular, not just ghosts in general, but that was going to be a challenge. He didn't even know her last name. Nancy wasn't really enough to go on. He shoved the last one back in where he'd gotten it from and went up to the front desk.

"Yes, Mr. Hunter?" Mrs. Johnson said.

"Do you have newspapers going back all the way around the end of World War II?" he asked.

"We do," she said. "Are you doing a report for school?"

"No, it's just something I'm kind of curious about."

"Well, it's all on microfiche, and we only have one machine."

"And that's a problem because . . ."

"Because someone's already on it If it was for school, I could evict him, but you said it's not."

Dean cursed his honesty. "Thanks anyway." He wandered in the direction of the machine and saw little Sammy Beckett sitting at the screen. He walked up behind him and looked over his shoulder, wondering what a kid like Sammy was reading up on.

"Local Girl Suicides in Woods." The date was April 21, 1949. There was a photograph under the headline. She wasn't wearing the same clothes, but it was the girl he'd seen in the woods on Wednesday night, there was no doubting it.

"Kinda morbid reading," he observed.

Sammy jumped and turned his head. "I'm . . . just curious."

"You heard about Tom?" Dean asked.

Sammy's brows knit. "Tom? I heard some kid died in the woods. Was it Tom?"

"That's what I hear," Dean replied. "What are you looking at this for, Sammy?" he asked, leaning his butt against the side of the table the machine was on.

"I told you, I'm curious," Sammy said defensively. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking stuff up." He scanned through the article and found her name. Nancy Everett. "Be seeing you."

"Sure," Sammy said, sounding puzzled.

Dean left the library and walked along the road, not sure what he was going to do. Something had to be done to stop her, but he didn't know what. A car pulled up beside him when he was about two blocks from the library. He looked up when the door opened and realized it was Ronald Carter, the police chief. "Dean, I need you to come down to the station and talk to me."

Dean swallowed. "Can I walk down and join you?" he asked.

"I'd rather you came with me in the car," Carter said.

Dean peeked inside the car and saw that the passenger seat was empty. "Can I ride up front, at least?"

"Sure."

Dean got in on the passenger side of the car and resigned himself to a polite conversation with the police. If this didn't end with him in juvie, he'd be lucky as hell.

* * *

Sam followed Dean out of the library, wondering why he'd been so interested in the article about the only violent female death Sam had found in the history of that stretch of woods. He knew why he was interested. He'd heard that morning in the grocery store that Tom and some of his friends had been out in the woods Friday night, and he knew that one of them had died. According to Mrs. Whitley, one of the school secretaries who gossiped nonstop as far as he could tell, the other boys were nearly hysterical with stories about a pale girl who appeared and disappeared. That had sounded ghostly to him, so he'd come down to look into it.

He looked down the street and watched in surprise as a police car pulled up beside Dean. A cop got out and talked to him, then they both got in. Sam wondered what that was all about. He went back inside and closed down the microfiche machine. After returning the microfiche roll to the librarian lady, he went back to the apartment. It was a hunt. He knew it. And Dad wasn't here.

Dad would probably tell him he should wait, that he would handle it when he got back. But one guy had already died, and Sam didn't think he dared wait. Thirteen or not, he had to do something. He went through all the stuff he had on hand, and scowled. He had rock salt, but it was the emergency stash Dad left always for him in case anything bad showed up while he was gone. If he used that up on a hunt and left himself unprotected, Dad would kill him when he found out. So, he needed lighter fluid, rock salt and matches. He dug through the money Dad had left him, and knew it would cover it, but he wouldn't have much left for food.

Shrugging, he stuffed it in his pocket and walked down to the grocery store. It made a weird looking pile on the belt, but the checker didn't even blink. She just rang up his purchases, put them in a plastic bag and took his money. Now he had to figure out which of the three cemeteries in town Nancy Everett was buried in. The article hadn't said that.

He went from one to the other and found her in the last one he checked. He stared down at the grave for a long moment and realized the flaw in his plan. There was no way in hell he had enough money to buy a shovel. He'd have to steal one, and that led to different dangers. He looked around for a good place to stash his supplies and saw a tree with a hollow spot. It was a little above his head, but if he left one of the handles hanging out a little, he'd be able to drag it down again.

That done, he went off in search of a shovel.

* * *

When Dean heard footsteps on the lane coming out of the graveyard, he dodged behind a stand of bushes, not particularly wanting to be seen. He'd spent the last four hours in the police station, answering stupid questions about his fight with Tom Carpenter and about the confrontation at school on Friday. It was ridiculous. None of what had happened would have led to Dean attacking Tom. It was far more likely that Tom would have gone after him. When he'd pointed that out, the detective had immediately asked him if that's what had happened. Dean rolled his eyes. Cops wanted the easy answer, always.

Finally, they'd confirmed that he'd been at the garage until after eleven Friday night, and that seemed to clear him, at least provisionally. He really hoped that being questioned by the police wouldn't be considered grounds for pulling him out of Jake's house and putting him in juvie. It wasn't like he'd done anything.

When he saw Sammy coming out of the graveyard, he blinked. What the hell was that kid up to? Once Sammy was out of sight, Dean went on into the graveyard. He'd come to this one first because it was on the southeast end of town, right up against the woods, maybe three blocks along from Lou's. It seemed like the logical first choice.

He wandered up and down the rows of graves till he found the Everetts. There were Marian and Arnold, parents of Michael and Nancy, and then there was Nancy. She'd died ten years before her father had and nearly thirty before her mother. Her brother didn't appear to be present. Dean stared at the stone. _Beloved Daughter/Taken Too Soon._ He guessed it was a good thing it wasn't a Catholic graveyard, or they wouldn't have let her be buried here at all.

He knew there was something that needed to be done, and it needed to be done here, but he didn't know what. He clenched his fists and looked around for any kind of hint. It was maddening, truly, because he could feel the knowledge boiling around somewhere in his head, only he couldn't get anywhere near it.

A spot of white caught his eye, and his gut chilled. It wasn't night, she couldn't – then he looked closer and saw that it was something sticking out of a hollow in a tree. Dean walked over and leaned up a little on his toes to see what was there. It was a plastic grocery bag, and it clearly hadn't been there for very long. He reached in and grabbed it, not sure what he expected to find.

When he looked inside, he was aware of a peculiar sensation, like the dam in his mind had burst just enough for a trickle to come through. The words _salt and burn_ flowed into his head just as easy as that, and he knew that was the answer he'd been looking for. He needed to dig the body up and . . . and that was fucking creepy. He stuffed the bag back into the hollow and wondered who'd put it there. It couldn't have been Sammy. He was just a kid. What would a kid be doing with this kind of knowledge?

On the other hand, anything Dean knew about this stuff had to have been learned before he was twelve, and Sammy was older than that. He bit his lip and wondered where Sammy had gone.

He walked a little way into the woods, figuring he could stake out the grave from there and see who came back to it for the barbecue.

* * *

Sam saw a couple of shovels, but they were both in use. Hard to steal a shovel that some guy had a firm grip on. He wandered around for awhile, then went home and dug out the flashlight. He'd need that, too, if he was going to dig after dark. Maybe he should call Bobby and see if he had a suggestion.

No, this was his hunt, and he had to show that he could manage on his own. Besides, Bobby would probably call his dad. Sam dug through all their stuff again, and all he found was a couple of big spoons. Throwing them on the bed in disgust, he searched through the cupboards. In the back of one of the drawers, he found a rusty old spade. It would take forever to dig deep enough with that, but he'd take it, just in case. Maybe he could dig a smaller hole, and if the coffin wasn't metal or something, he could just break into it and jet the lighter fluid along inside and light it from there.

He sighed. One of these days he was going to be as big as his dad. He just wished he knew when.

The hours that followed were agony. Sam couldn't concentrate on homework or on TV. Every time he heard a car, he ran to the window, half-hoping his dad would come back and take care of this for him. For one thing, Sam knew there were shovels in the back of the Impala. He read through his notes on dealing with angry ghosts over and over again, even though they were less than a page. It felt like the night before a big test, only the grade was life or death, just not for him. He didn't think he fit the profile for this ghost. The deaths he'd seen in the papers were all of guys between sixteen and twenty-five.

Around seven, it finally looked dark enough to go outside and make his way to the graveyard. Sam stuffed the spade into his jacket pocket and kept his eye out for abandoned shovels. He saw a few people clearing up after yard work, but everyone seemed to be putting things away properly. He'd have to make do with his spade.

When he got to the lane that led to the graveyard, he slowed a little, listening. He didn't want to surprise anyone making out. He'd heard kids talking about that as a thrill in class, but all Sam could think was that they were crazy. There wasn't a sound, so he crept cautiously in. No one around. He turned on the flashlight and walked up to the grave. Sighing, he got down on his knees, put the light where it showed what he was doing, and started to dig.

He'd turned no more than three or four spadefuls when he heard a twig crack behind him. He whirled, grabbing the flashlight and pointing it at the newcomer. He stared in shock and horror. It was Dean, and he discovered in that moment that he actually gave a damn what Dean thought of him. He must be the only kid in three states Sam felt that way about. He stood up slowly as Dean squinted in the light. "What'cha up to, Sammy?"

"Um . . ." Sam didn't have a ready lie for this one. "I just heard that if you . . ." He broke off. Talking about graveyard dirt wouldn't help. "Um . . ."

Dean was right in front of him now. "Salt and burn?" he asked softly.

"What? No, of . . ." He trailed off. Dean seemed entirely serious. "How did you know?" he asked.

Dean shrugged. "Lucky guess," he said. "You have to dig her up first?"

Sam realized he was trying to hide the spade behind his body and relaxed his arm. "Yeah. I've got to salt and burn the bones, but how do you even know there's a ghost?"

"I get around," Dean said. He leaned down and plucked the spade out of Sam's hands and tossed it aside. "But this is not the way to get the job done, Sammy-boy. Give me ten minutes, and I'll be right back."

"You're not going to get the cops or anything, are you?"

Dean snorted and shook his head. "Would I rat on you?" he asked, reaching out and tousling Sam's hair.

"I don't know, I don't really know you," Sam said, ducking back.

"Well, I'm not a rat," Dean said. "Back in a flash." He took off down the lane, jog-trotting along. Sam watched him go, then shook his head. Going and getting the spade from where Dean had thrown it, he got back down on his knees and started digging again. Dean probably wouldn't be back.

He tried to convince himself that he was making headway. He'd gotten a whole six inches down in a hole that wasn't much bigger than a loaf of bread when he heard jogging footsteps in the lane. He sat back and stared in shock when Dean came into the graveyard carrying a shovel, a real shovel.

"Can I use that?" he asked, getting to his feet.

"Nope," Dean said, and Sam glared up at him. "You're too short to get the right torque on it," Dean added. "Sorry."

"What are you saying?" Sam demanded. Dean didn't answer, he just walked over to the side of the grave and, putting his foot on the side of the shovel, sunk it into the ground. He started cutting through the sod in a roughly rectangular pattern around the perimeter of the grave.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked.

"Well, if we have the grass and stuff still intact, it will be a lot easier to hide what we've done."

"You don't have to do this," Sam protested. "It's my hunt."

"Hunt?" Dean asked, now carefully levering chunks of grass out of the ground. Sam started helping, piling them away from where they'd have to throw the dirt. "Never thought about it that way. Anyhow, I have more call to be on it than you do, Sammy."

Sam stood up straight and glowered at him. "How's that?" he asked belligerently.

"I saw the bitch," Dean said. "Night before last. She tried to kiss me, but I ran like hell."

Sam stared at him. "She tried to . . . eeuw."

Dean paused and gave him a shrug. "Pretty much, yeah."

Once the sod was out of the way, Dean started digging for real. With one flip of the shovel, he'd pulled out at least as much dirt as Sam had managed so far. Sam settled glumly down on the side to watch him dig, and he sort of saw what Dean meant about the torque. Sam wasn't all that much taller than the shovel. He sighed and resigned himself to holding the flashlight. After awhile, he said, "Is that why you were at the library? Because you saw her?"

"Because I saw her, and because I asked Lou – that's my boss – what the story was, since the kids were all telling stories out of the bloodiest horror movies." He paused and shrugged. "And because somebody died. That could have been me Wednesday night, and if I'd gotten my shit together sooner, Tom might have been okay."

"You can't blame yourself," Sam said with a shrug that made the circle of light bob. "You're a civilian."

"I'm a what?" Dean asked, his face taking on an amused look.

"A civilian," Sam repeated. "Not a hunter."

"What are you? Because I don't believe you do this every day."

"No, but I will," Sam said, lifting his chin. "My dad does."

"So you're like a . . . what do you call it . . . an apprentice?" Dean asked.

Sam shrugged. "If you're tired of digging, I can take over."

Dean shook his head and started digging again. It took hours to sink a hole that deep. Sam hadn't realized that. Maybe that was part of why Dad was gone so long when he hunted. Sam kept offering to help, but Dean wouldn't let him.

"This is nuts. I'm the hunter and you're the one digging."

"Apprentice . . . hunter . . ." Dean said between gasps for air. "Short . . . apprentice . . . hunter." He stopped digging and leaned on the shovel, breathing heavily. "I think I gotta take a break, Sammy," he said.

"Fine, then you hold the flashlight, and I'll dig." Sam jumped into the hole and took hold of the shovel. "Wait, what's on this?" He shone the flashlight on the spot. "Is that blood?" he asked.

Dean shrugged and let him take the shovel away, going a few steps back to hop out and sit on the ground, his feet dangling in the hole. "I don't do this much," he said. "I guess maybe I should have grabbed Jake's gloves, but they're way to big for me."

Sam walked over and turned Dean's right hand into the light. He could see blisters that had come up and popped, and new ones starting. He went over to the bag he'd brought with him. "I grabbed the first aid kit before I came out," he said.

Dean looked up when he said that. "You got gauze and tape?" he asked.

"Sure."

"Okay, here, give it to –"

"You're not going to be able to do it by yourself," Sam said, walking over and setting the kit down on the edge of the hole. He opened it and pulled out one of the three inch square pieces of gauze. "Okay, hold your hand out."

"Sammy, I can manage it on my own."

"Hold your hand out," Sam said, ripping the packaging off the square of gauze.

"You're a bossy little squirt," Dean said.

"Yeah, well, you're the civilian and I'm the apprentice hunter, so put your hand out."

Giving him a dubious look, Dean held out his left hand. Sam carefully placed the gauze over the palm and pulled out the tape.

"Wrap it good, or I won't be able to dig any more."

"You shouldn't have been digging in the first place," Sam said, but he started wrapping the way he'd seen his father wrap his hands when they were in a similar state. Sometimes Dad showed up with all sorts of weird injuries, and he usually wouldn't answer questions about how he'd gotten hurt. He thought he knew where the hand stuff came from now. It used a lot of tape, but Sam had often thought they should buy stock in first aid companies.

"Not too bad, kid," Dean said when he'd finished the first hand.

"My name's not kid, it's Sam," Sam said irritably. He grabbed Dean's right hand and started working.

"Sam, yeah, right. I guess I'm probably driving you nuts calling you Sammy."

Sam was glad he was looking down when Dean said that, because his eyes widened. It was only at that moment that he realized that he hadn't minded at all. Usually it pissed him off beyond words, but after the first time, he'd sort of accepted it without question. "Kind of," he lied. "But that doesn't mean you have to stop."

"That's sort of schizo, don't you think?" Dean asked, giving him an odd look.

"I kind of like it, too," Sam said quietly. "It reminds me of my brother."

"Where's he?"

Sam shrugged. "He disappeared when I was eight," he said. "After all this time, Dad thinks he's dead."

"What do you think?" Dean asked.

"I don't know," Sam said. He sighed and didn't look up. "I don't want him to be dead."

"Man, I know that one," Dean said.

"What do you mean?" Sam asked.

"I'm going to find my real parents one of these days, that's all. I just hope they aren't dead before I get to them, you know?" Sam gave him a quizzical look. "What?"

"Your real parents?" Sam repeated hesitantly.

Dean glanced down at his hands. "Oh, right, I forget you're not from around here." Sam shrugged and waited for more information. Dean grimaced, looking slightly embarrassed. "I'm a foster kid."

Sam nodded and didn't pursue the subject. He finished the tape on Dean's right hand and put the supplies back in the first aid kit. Then he grabbed the shovel and drove it into the dirt. He put his foot on the side of the shovel and tried to dig it further in, but instead of the shovel going into the ground, Sam shoved himself off his feet.

"Easy, tiger, I got it," Dean said, gently pushing him aside. "I've gotten a rest, and my hands are all protected now."

"I can do it," Sam protested.

"Before dawn, when some old biddy comes to lay flowers on her husband's grave, sees us, and has a heart attack?"

Sam climbed back out of the hole and sat Indian style on the edge. "I hate being short."

"You'll grow out of it," Dean said, and Sam glared at him. "Come on, Sammy! Hey, knock knock?"

"Knock knock jokes?" Sam said disdainfully.

"Why not? It'll pass the time." He raised his eyebrows and Sam shrugged. "Knock knock."

"Who's there?"

"Doris."

"Doris who?"

"Doris locked, that's why I had to knock!"

Sam groaned, but he kept playing the stupid game until he heard a thunk. He scrambled to the edge of the hole. "I think you're there!"

"Either that or China's a whole lot closer than I thought."

Sam got up and flashed the light at the hollow in the tree. "I'd better get the . . ." He couldn't see the bag. "Someone took it!" he said.

"Don't fuss, Sammy," Dean said, climbing out of the hole. "I stuck it a little further in after I peeked. Keep the light pointed over there."

* * *

Dean went up on his toes again and pulled the bag out of the depths. "See, Sammy," he said, turning around.

"Dean, look out!"

With the flashlight between them, Dean couldn't really see Sammy, but he whirled to find that Nancy – or rather what was left of her – had come up behind him. He threw the bag in the direction of the flashlight. "Deal with it while I distract her."

"Dean!"

"Do it, kid!" Dean dodged as Nancy came at him.

"I thought you wanted to kiss me," she murmured.

"That was before I knew you were dead," Dean said, backing up. "How about if we stay just friends?" She was suddenly no longer in front of him, and he felt a chill behind him. He turned again. "Hey, that's cheating!"

"Come on, kiss me!" she cooed. "I know you want to."

"Sammy?"

"I can't get the coffin open!"

Dean ducked and dug in his pocket. He threw the salt through her, and she vanished. "Use the shovel!" he called, twisting around to see where she would come at him from the next time. He dodged across to the bag of supplies and grabbed out some more salt. A cold front behind him made him whirl and fling salt in an arc. She flickered out again, and Dean took a deep breath. "How you doing?"

"Better, I think," Sam said. He sounded breathless, and he punctuated his response with a thump of the shovel against the casket. He could hear the top beginning to splinter. "Look out!"

Dean dug into the salt again and turned around, but she vanished before the salt hit her. Cold hands seized his arm and swung him backwards against a tree. He hit it with a bone-jarring thump, his head whacking into a protruding knot. Dazed, he watched her approach. A splintery crash came from the direction of the grave, and he hoped Sammy was almost done. Her hands landed on his shoulders, and she got up on tiptoe to press her frigid lips to his. He felt energy draining from him.

Then she pulled back abruptly and let out a mind-rending shriek. Flames shot up and consumed her completely. Dean sank to his butt at the base of the tree, heart pounding. That was too close.

A few moments later, he realized he was being shaken and that Sammy was calling his name over and over again. "Dean! Are you okay? Dean?"

Somehow, he seemed to have flopped over. He pressed himself upright. "I'm good, kid, I'm fine," he said, pushing Sammy gently away before clambering to his feet. "We'd better close the grave up now."

"Right. I'll do that, you just rest."

Dean stumbled over to the side of the grave and contemplated the shovel. Then he sat down in a kind of controlled collapse. "Okay, you do that," he said.

Refilling the hole took less time than digging it had, but it still took awhile. By the time Sammy was jumping up and down on the mound of dirt to try and get it to flatten out, Dean was up to getting up and stomping on it himself. "That's enough," he said, finally. "I've gotta go to bed, but I'm going to see you home first."

Sammy shook his head. "I don't need you to see me home."

"Tough." He put an arm around Sammy's shoulders. "I'm not letting you go home on your own after that."

"You were the one in danger. I should be walking you home.'

"Like you need to be anywhere near my house."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sammy asked, pulling away.

"The people I live with aren't fit associates for a lad of your tender years," Dean intoned sententiously.

Sammy gave him a disgusted look. "You sure do know how to sling the bullshit."

"It's a gift," Dean said, buffing his knuckles on his second best jacket. He supposed he could go back into the woods to find his other jacket now. "Where do you live, anyway?"

"You know those crappy apartments across town?"

"Yeah," Dean said.

"Number three."

"So, I guess you guys aren't planning on sticking around, huh?"

Sammy shook his head. "We never stay anywhere for long."

"Sounds kind of lonely."

"I've got my dad," Sammy said staunchly, but Dean was a shrewd judge of character. If this kid wasn't lonely, he'd eat his shorts.

Dean blinked and tilted his head. "Where is he?" he asked. "If he's a hunter, why was it you coming out to salt and burn those bones on your own?" He kept his voice low now that they were passing through inhabited streets.

Sammy shrugged. "He's out on a hunt," he said.

"He left you alone to go hunt?" Dean asked, a little annoyed by that idea.

"He says I'm too young to go with him," Sammy replied. "But it's no big deal. I wouldn't want to miss school, anyway."

"Yeah, right," Dean snorted. "But how long has he been gone?"

"Doesn't matter," Sammy said. "He'll be back soon."

"Soon as in tonight, or soon as in tomorrow?"

"Soon as in soon," Sammy replied, giving him a dirty look. "Why are you asking so many questions about my dad?"

Dean shrugged. "Just wondering." He figured that was as good an answer as he was going to get. Soon didn't mean tonight or tomorrow, and probably not Monday. "I just thought we could hang out together tomorrow, but if your dad's getting home then, you probably won't want to, that's all."

Sammy's expression cleared right up, and Dean knew he'd chosen the right excuse. "Oh, no, he won't be back tomorrow." He gave Dean a sidelong look. "What, you don't go to church on Sunday mornings?" he asked mischievously.

"Hell, no," Dean replied with a laugh. "Jake and Louise do. They even dress up and look the part, like the hypocritical bastards they are."

"That your foster parents?" Sammy asked.

"If you mean are they the people the great state of Georgia decided to 'place' me with, then yes," Dean said. "But they are in no way parental, foster or otherwise. If I didn't have to stay with them, I'd have left months ago." He nodded towards the stairs. "This it?"

"Yeah." Sammy paused, looking at him. "You want to come in?"

"Sure," Dean said. By now he was curious how the kid lived on his own. They went up the stairs and Sammy used his key to open the lock. Dean stepped inside after Sammy and looked around. "Man, this place is a sty!" he said without thinking.

"That's just because I had to dig through everything we had to see if I could find anything like a shovel," Sammy exclaimed defensively. He dropped the bag on the floor and started picking things up.

"Hey, I wasn't saying you should clean up, Sammy-boy, I just –" Something occurred to Dean suddenly, and he started laughing. "Oh crap!"

"What?" Sammy asked, looking like he wanted his share of the joke.

"I left old man Miller's shovel at the graveyard."

Sammy's eyes widened. "Will people think he did it?"

"Well, first there'd have to be an identifying tag or something, and I didn't see one," Dean said. "And then there's the fact that he's eighty-two and hasn't done much digging in the last ten years or so." Sammy didn't seem to quite see the humor in it, but Dean's laughter got the better of him at the image of stern, solemn Mr. Miller digging up a grave.

Sammy kept cleaning up, and Dean said, "You don't have to do that on my account."

"It has to be done," Sammy said.

"At five in the morning?" Dean asked, and Sammy finally looked up. "Get some sleep. I'll come back by around –"

"Do you –" Sammy's jaw clamped shut and he bit his lip as if he didn't want to say something.

"Do I what?" Dean asked.

Sammy shrugged, but the tension in his body belied the casual gesture. "Do you really feel up to the walk home?" he asked, and Dean had a feeling he'd edited the question.

"Why, you offering me a chunk of floor?"

"Actually, you could sleep on my dad's bed. It's not like he's using it."

It was clear that Sammy really wanted him to stay despite his attempt at concealing it, and Dean wondered how he'd wound up in this position. He grinned easily. "I'm beat, so I'll take you up on that, as long as you don't think you're old man will mind."

"He won't care," Sammy said. "It's through here." There was one bedroom with two beds in it. Sam pointed to the one his dad usually used, grabbed what looked like a pair of PJs and headed off towards the bathroom.

Dean kicked his shoes off, shucked his jeans and hung his jacket and outer shirt over the chair at the end of the bed. No way in hell was he taking off his t-shirt. No kid, no matter if he was an 'apprentice hunter,' needed to see the crap that bastard had engraved on his skin. Pulling back the covers, he fell into the bed and was instantly asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Sam woke up before Dean did on Sunday morning, so he started work on cleaning the apartment. Dad would have a cow if he saw the mess. He didn't care about much, but his gear needed to be packed up neat and tidy. Sam was just putting his own stuff away when Dean emerged from the bedroom, scratching his head. He disappeared into the bathroom without speaking, and Sam snorted. He dug into his father's stash of coffee and some for Dean before pulling out the cereal.

Dean came out of the bathroom and headed straight for the smell of coffee. Sam waited till he'd had a sip before speaking. "So, do you want Frosted Flakes or Lucky Charms?"

Dean's eyebrows went up. "Neither. Is that all you've got?"

Sam shrugged. "It's a healthy breakfast if you listen to the commercials."

"With milk and fruit," Dean said. "That's the part they put in little words at the bottom." He shook his head. "I'm going to take you out for breakfast as soon as I get dressed."

Sam followed him into the bedroom. "I don't have the money to go out for breakfast," he said.

"I'm taking you, Sammy," Dean said. "That means I'm paying."

"Oh." Sam went over to the dresser and dug out a decent shirt. He grabbed one of his dad's, too, and threw it to Dean. "Here, Dad wouldn't mind."

Dean threw it back. "I'm not borrowing your father's clothes without permission, Sammy." He glanced at his watch, and Sam noticed that he didn't have the bandages on anymore. His hands looked red and swollen, and new blisters had formed on the ruins of the old.

"Dean, your hands . . ." Sam trailed off, not sure what to say.

Dean turned up the hand not holding the coffee. "It'll be fine, squirt."

"You need bandages," Sam said insistently.

Shrugging, Dean said, "Actually, I was just thinking, if you can wait for your breakfast, Jake and Louise should be leaving for church about now, so we could swing by their place, and I could get cleaned up."

"And the bandages?"

"Well, I don't want them on until after I shower," Dean pointed out, and Sam supposed that was reasonable. "So, is it a plan?"

"Sure," Sam said. He almost never went over to anybody's house. It usually sucked, because he knew it was something he'd never have. This was different, though, Dean didn't really belong wherever he was either. It wasn't far away, and they climbed in the window instead of using the door.

"Jake won't give me a key," Dean said to Sam's unspoken question.

"What a jerk," Sam said, looking around the bedroom. Dean had posters of cars and rock bands on his walls.

"Oh, paybacks are a bitch," Dean said, digging in a cheap dresser. "Those posters, I put them up with wallpaper paste." Sam goggled at him, then examined the edge of a Guns & Roses one. "The tape's just for show." Coming up with a stack of clothing, he said, "Stay here, I'm going to go hose off."

"Sure," Sam said.

Dean closed the door behind him as he left, and a few seconds later, Sam heard another door open and close, and then the water turned on. He wandered around the room, looking at stuff. There was a box under the bed that had a padlock on it, probably so Jake or Louise wouldn't pry. He sat down on the bed and tried not to be nosy.

Then he heard a door open and close. For a second he thought it was Dean, and that he'd showered quickly so they could get to breakfast. Then he realized he could still hear the water going. An almighty pounding on a door down the hall made him jump. "That you, Dean?" demanded a loud, male voice. Sam couldn't hear the answer, though he could hear the guy – he guessed it must be Jake – well enough. "Where the hell were you last night, boy?"

Sam eased the door open a crack and saw a big guy standing outside a door on the opposite side of the hall and a few feet down. Sam assumed it was the bathroom door. The guy was taller than Sam's dad, and he clearly didn't get as much exercise. He had his brown hair cut short, and he was wearing a bathrobe.

Jake started rattling the door. "Why's this door locked?" he growled. "Answer me when I talk to you, boy!"

The water stopped and Sam held his breath, afraid that any noise he made would alert Jake to his presence. He didn't even dare shut the door for fear that he would hear. "Sorry, Jake," Dean called. "I couldn't hear you over the water."

"Where were you last night?"

"Stayed the night at a friend's house," Dean replied.

"Don't you go getting anyone pregnant, you randy bastard," Jake said, kicking the door. "We've got more than enough of you unwanted brats cluttering up the world." Sam's jaw dropped. "Am I going to have an angry father coming over again?"

"Hey, she was eighteen. It wasn't any of his business."

"Whatever. I don't want to deal with it."

The door opened, and Dean was standing there, his hair still dark from the shower but fully dressed. "It wasn't a girl friend," he said, and the word was clearly split in two. "Me and a guy from school stayed up half the night playing video games, and I just fell asleep at his place."

"You've been fighting again," Jake said, glaring at the bandages on his hands. Dean didn't answer, he just started to push past him, but Jake grabbed him by the arm. "Don't you walk away when I'm talking to you."

Sam watched Dean close his eyes, and he could swear the older boy was counting to ten. "It's not like you care, or anything," Dean said finally. "I didn't get into any trouble, so no harm, no foul."

"I heard the police picked you up yesterday. That doesn't sound like no trouble."

"It was nothing," Dean protested.

"You get arrested and social services is going to come down on my head for not supervising you better."

"I'm not going to get arrested, dickweed," Dean said. "I was at the garage when whatever it was went down. I'm in the clear. Lou will vouch for me."

Jake held onto Dean a moment longer, then shoved him away so hard that he hit the wall next to the bedroom door. He hit so hard that the wall shook, and Sam saw him wince. "That had better be true," Jake snarled, and then he disappeared into the bathroom, slamming the door.

"Bite me," Dean muttered, and he started walking towards his bedroom. His eyes were quick. He spotted Sammy watching before he had a chance to move away. "Crap," he muttered. Sam backed up, and they both climbed out the window. Dean didn't say anything for almost a block, and Sam was afraid he was pissed. Sam was just gathering his courage to apologize when Dean cleared his throat. "I didn't want you to see that," he said.

"Is he always like that?"

"Nah, he was in a good mood," Dean replied shrugging.

"Why don't you run away?"

"Because I can't," Dean snapped, and Sam bit his lip. "I'm stuck until January 1st, and then I'm getting the hell out of dodge." He sped up, and Sam had to almost jog to keep pace with him. They didn't talk the rest of the way to the diner, though after a couple of minutes, Dean did slow back down.

They walked in and the bell chimed. "Hey, Patty, you got any booths?"

"One emptied out about a minute ago," she said. "Let me clear it off for you."

"Thanks, sweetheart." After the waitress finished clearing the table off, Dean gave her a blinding smile. "You know my order, bring two, okay?"

"Sure, doll," she said, and she sashayed off. Dean watched her walk away with a light of appreciation in his eyes.

"Isn't she a lot older than you?" Sam asked. "Like twenty or something?"

Dean turned and looked at him. "Kid, twenty is a great age. Hell, twenty-five is a great age." He grinned. "Honestly, I'd go with a hot thirty-year-old if I had the chance."

"You're weird."

"And you're a kid."

"So you weren't all over girls when you were my age?"

Dean got a weird look on his face. "When I was your age . . . there was Mona, and Desiree, and Leann . . ."

"Euew," Sam said.

"Dude, you are so young," Dean said. "Euew? Heck, even the dead chick was kind of hot, except for the dead part." Sam goggled at him. "Well she was."

"That's just gross."

"One of these days, my boy, you are going to wake up and realize that girls are good for more than throwing spitwads at."

"I don't throw spitwads at girls," Sam protested. "I don't throw spitwads at anybody."

Dean started shaking his head. "Your education has been sorely neglected. Clearly, I'm going to have to take you under my wing, Sammy, and teach you how to be a real boy."

Sam rolled his eyes, but then Patty was coming up with a heavily laden tray. There was two of everything, two plates of toast, two plates of eggs, two sides of sausage and two short stacks of pancakes. Sam started salivating just looking at it.

"You eat like this more often, Sammy, and that height problem will be solved in a jiffy."

"Height problem?" Sam asked suspiciously.

Dean blinked at him, looking puzzled. "You were complaining about being short."

"Oh." Sam started eating. "Thanks, by the way."

"No problem. Can't let a growing boy subsist on cardboard food." They each communed with their food for awhile. When the plates were mostly empty, Dean sat back and said, "So, what are we going to do today?"

"You ever done any shooting?" Sam asked.

* * *

The question was thrown at him so casually that Dean nearly flubbed it. "I don't . . . think so," he said, catching himself just in time to avoid admitting that he didn't actually know. "How come?"

"I thought we could go out to the quarry just outside town and . . . I don't know, shoot tin cans and stuff." Sammy shrugged. "I mean, not if you think it's dumb or anything, but –"

"No, it sounds cool," Dean said. "But do you have ammo to spare?"

Sam grimaced. "Oh, I hadn't . . . maybe not."

"We'll just go by the hardware store, and I can buy something cheap," Dean suggested, and Sammy's eyes lit up. Dean didn't quite know why he was going out of his way to hang out with Sammy, but as long as they were both having fun, what did it matter?

They went to Breamer's Hardware, and Sammy picked out the right kinds of ammo for the guns they had on tap while Dean grabbed a couple of bottles of water. When they got up to the counter, Mike Wilson looked Dean over and glanced around the store. "You paying with cash?" he asked.

"Sure," Dean said, mystified, but Mike didn't say anything else, he just rang them up and put their purchases into a paper bag. Dean picked it up and he, and Sammy went back to the apartment.

Sammy loaded a couple of handguns into a canvas duffel bag with the ammo. "It's kind of a walk," he said.

Dean shrugged. "Then let's get going."

It was maybe a mile to the abandoned quarry, but Dean knew a lot of people used it this way, though not usually on Sunday. He was glad of that last. It made it less likely that they would be interrupted. Two kids out shooting wouldn't be that odd a sight in this town, but when one of them wasn't a local and the other one was a foster kid, it might set some hackles up.

"How much do you know about guns?" Sammy asked. Dean shrugged. "Do you know how to check if it's loaded?"

"The easiest way would be to pull the trigger, right?" Dean asked, and Sammy gave him a disapproving glare. "Kidding, seriously. Show me."

"This is an automatic," Sammy said, pulling out one of the guns. "You got to pop the mag out, then check the breech." He demonstrated, and Dean saw that the gun was, in fact, loaded. "Okay," Sammy said, slamming the mag home again. "Here, you do it."

Dean took it, expecting to find it awkward, but it was like his hands knew exactly what to do without him even thinking about it. He swallowed uneasily. He'd never handled firearms before. Not one of his foster families had kept guns in the house, and the cops he'd met hadn't been likely to let him handle their weapons.

"Good," Sammy said. He held out his hand, and Dean gave him the pistol back, feeling oddly reluctant to let it go. "Now, you hold it like this," Sammy said, raising the gun to shoulder level and demonstrating a shooting stance. He squeezed off a few rounds, then glanced up at Dean. "See?"

"I think so," Dean replied. His gut was feeling really weird. He recognized all of this, somehow, without being able to access the memories that he knew it from. Sam handed over the gun again, and Dean raised it to shoulder height and fired. It felt good and right, and that almost scared him.

"Okay, we're ready set up some targets and get shooting." Sammy ran over to a pile of trashed soda cans and bottles and started sorting through. Dean looked at the gun in his hand, and he had clear images in his head of what the gun would look like taken apart, how one would go about cleaning it and even repairing it. How did he know this stuff?

He looked up and saw that Sammy had been busy while he'd zoned. He'd set up little bits of color at various distances. He came trotting back, brushing his hands together to rid them of the dust. "You ready?" he asked, reaching into the bag for another handgun, checking it automatically.

"Sure," Dean said.

"Okay, there are ten each, mine are blue, yours are red."

"What if I want blue?" Dean asked, striving for a sense of normalcy.

"Tough," Sammy said with a glint in his eyes. "You want to go first or second?"

"You go ahead," Dean said.

Sammy shrugged and sighted along the pistol in his hand. Dean watched his technique and his mind started filling in details about the gun he was using. He didn't know what the gun was called, but all the pieces and maintenance facts anyone would need to know to take care of a gun like that. Its mag dropped differently, and the breech . . . Dean shook his head. He did not know where all this was coming from.

"Not bad, I guess," Sammy said, and Dean realized he'd finished. There were still three blue spots untouched. "Your turn, but don't feel bad if you don't do as well. I've been shooting since I was little."

"Like you're so big now," Dean said teasingly.

Sammy rolled his eyes. "Go on, or are you scared?"

"Them's fighting words!" Dean said, and he looked at his red splotches. Raising the gun, he shot ten times and dropped it to his side again. Not one of them was intact. He hadn't even really thought about it, just aimed and squeezed.

"Whoa!" Sammy exclaimed. "That rocks!" He grabbed Dean and sort of shook him in a congratulatory way. "Ten out of ten! First try! That's amazing. You sure you've never done this before?" Dean shrugged again, not feeling real able to speak. "I'm going to set it up again," Sammy said. "Only I'm going to make it harder. I thought I'd go a little easy on you, but . . . ha!" He ran off, and Dean watched him go.

Over the next several hours, Sammy set up progressively harder and harder shots, and Dean made every one. Sammy stopped taking turns shooting himself, and Dean wasn't sure why, but the kid was sure getting a kick out of watching him make one impossible shot after another. He had to admit, it was kind of fun, but freaky, like picking up a paintbrush and immediately painting the Mona Lisa freaky.

Finally, Dean glanced at his watch. Two. All the vibration was making his hands hurt, and his head ached. Jake's shove had renewed the pain from the knot Nancy had given him last night. Besides that, his stomach was making desperate pleas as Sammy ran over to the pile of target material. Again. "Sammy?" he called.

"Yeah?" The kid turned around, his eyes alight.

"I think it's time for lunch."

Sammy's eyes widened, and Dean knew his body was alerting him to its own need for food. "What time is it?"

"Two," Dean said. "Let's pack up and go get some burgers."

This very sensible plan was followed, and they wound up back at the diner, there not being a large number of options in Fort William. Patty grinned at them and showed them to a booth. "So, who's your new friend, Dean?"

"This is Sam Beckett," Dean said, and he saw Sammy's little glance of appreciation that he hadn't introduced him as Sammy.

"You and your dad are staying over at The Cedars, right?" Patty asked, and Sammy nodded politely, seeming tongue-tied. "What'll you have?"

"Bacon cheeseburger with everything and extra onions," Dean said with a grin. "Garlic cheese fries and a Coke." He looked over at the kid. "What do you want, Sammy? My treat."

"The same," Sammy said. "But . . . no onions?"

"Got it," Patty said. She grinned at them both and walked away.

"I've never seen anybody shoot like that," Sammy said. "Even my dad can't, and he was a Marine."

"Beginner's luck," Dean said dismissively.

"That might have explained the first ten, but you kept it up for ages," Sammy said. "You know what you are, you're a natural."

Dean shrugged, embarrassed by so much outright admiration. "It's nothing," he said. "Now your life, that's interesting."

"What do you mean?"

"Hunting monsters? That's cool! Tell me all about it."

"I don't get to do very much, really," Sammy said. "But I studied a ton."

"You studied?"

"Yeah, after . . . my brother . . ." Dean nodded. "I went to stay with a friend of my dad's. Dean and I always called him Uncle Bobby, and –"

"Wait, what? Dean?"

"Yeah." Sammy looked at the table and started fiddling with his silverware. "That was my brother's name, Dean."

Dean's brows went up. "That's a little weird," he said.

Sammy grimaced. "Yeah, especially with you reminding me so much of him, but –"

"It's impossible," Dean said, cutting off that train of thought quickly. "It's just coincidence."

"I know," Sammy said with a shrug. "But you're right, it's weird."

"It doesn't bother you?"

Sammy shook his head. "No." His eyes widened as he'd suddenly thought of something. "But that's not why I wanted to be friends with you or anything. I just –"

"I figured you wanted to learn how to pick up girls," Dean said to defuse the tension that had suddenly come up. "So, what about this Uncle Bobby?"

"Oh, right," Sammy said, clearly relieved to be back on familiar ground. "Dad left me with Uncle Bobby for a couple of years. He's like a scholar of occult stuff. I'd go to school during the day and study spooks at night. There's a lot to learn."

Dean nodded slowly. "Well, that explains a lot," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"Why you don't throw spitwads," Dean replied. "You spend too much of your time around old men."

Sammy rolled his eyes. "Maybe I'm just too practical for something as goofy as spitwads."

"Whatever. So, what do I need to know if I'm thinking of setting up as a hunter myself?"

"Are you?" Sammy asked.

"I don't know, I should get an idea of what I'd be letting myself in for. After all, people like your dad don't exactly show up at the job fair. How'd your dad get started?"

Sammy's face went a little white, and he looked out the window. Patty showed up just then with their food. Dean took a long slurp of Coke before picking up his burger. "You don't have to tell me if it bugs you," he said.

"No," Sammy said, turning back. "It's just . . . my mom died when I was a baby. I don't remember anything, but my dad says she was killed by a demon. Dad started hunting because he wanted to find the demon that killed her."

"Demon?" Dean repeated. "Like from hell?" Sammy nodded. "Seriously? Like Linda Blair and her head spinning around?"

Sammy shrugged, putting on a nonchalant face. "Well, if that really happened to someone who was possessed, they'd die the minute the demon left them, and the exorcism in that movie was dumb. 'The power of Christ compels you.'" Sammy rolled his eyes. After a few moments, Sammy reached out for a french fry and chewed it thoughtfully. "We think a demon got Dean, too."

It made Dean slightly uncomfortable to hear his name used in that context, but he shrugged it off. "Why do you think so? Why would a demon chase after two members of the same family?"

"I don't know," Sam said. "But I heard Uncle Bobby talking to my dad about it. I guess there was sulfur near where they found the groceries Dean had been bringing back. See . . ." He bit his lip. "Dad was gone hunting when Dean got taken, so I called Uncle Bobby because I couldn't reach Dad and . . ." Dean was a little afraid that Sammy was going to start crying, but he got control of himself. "Anyway, they both went looking for him, and they found sulfur."

"So?" Dean asked.

"That's a sure sign of a demon," Sammy said. "I thought everybody knew that."

"Not me, Sammy-boy." He glanced around at the people in their Sunday best. "Not most of these fine folk either."

"I guess," Sammy said, looking around, too. "Well, let's see. Vampires are supposed to be extinct, but do you have any idea how to kill them?"

"Wait, vampires are real?"

"They were, but I just said, they're supposed to be extinct."

"Then why do I need to know how to kill them?" Dean asked logically.

"Uncle Bobby says not to assume what other people tell you is true, and that it's better to be safe than sorry."

"Okay, vampires." Dean shook his head. "I can't believe I'm having a serious conversation about vampires that doesn't include Anne Rice or Bela Lugosi."

Sammy blinked at him. "Who's Bela Lugosi?"

Dean didn't answer. He thought about all the movies he'd ever seen. "Well, garlic doesn't kill them, but it keeps them away, sunlight can kill them, and so can being stabbed in the heart with a stake of wood. Oh, and I think you can kill them by cutting their heads off. Do I get a gold star?"

Sammy shook his head. "Silver star. You got the right answer, but it was an afterthought."

"What?"

"The only way to kill vampires is by beheading them. Sunlight just bugs them, and no physical damage to their bodies harms them at all."

"Do they grow limbs back if you chop them off?"

Sammy's brow furrowed. "I don't know."

Dean filed that away in his mind. "Okay, so what else?"

"Um . . . witches."

"I thought those were all New Agey hippy flakes." He'd run across a few of that type in his years in Social Services.

"Some are, and we don't care about them. It's the old style ones, the ones who do really creepy things. If that kind of witch puts a hex bag in someone's house, she can do almost anything to them."

"Really? What do you have to do to stop them?" Sammy just looked serious and turned his attention down to his plate. "Oh," Dean said, getting the picture.

"Then there's wendigos. They're supposed to be people who got snowed in or something and turned to cannibalism to survive, but they ate too much human flesh and it changed them."

"Ick."

Sammy nodded. "They hibernate for years, then come out and take a bunch of people, eat them, then hibernate again."

"That sounds like a pretty boring life. Eat, sleep, eat again."

"Survival matters more to them than anything, I guess. Them you have to burn alive."

Dean shuddered. "That sounds fun."

"Interesting conversation, Dean," Chief Carter said, and Dean looked up in surprise to see the police chief standing next to him, in uniform. "You babysitting?"

Sammy started to bridle, but Dean held up a hand. "No, just hanging out with a friend. What can I do for you, sir?"

"Actually, we wondered if you could point us towards a Sam Beckett. No one seems to have his address."

"That's me," Sammy said. "But –"

Chief Carter turned to Sammy and stared at him for a second. "Would you mind standing up, son?"

"Sure," Sammy said, giving Dean an anxious look. He stood up and Carter shook his head. "I must have gotten bad information. I was told you beat the crap out of Tom Carpenter on Wednesday."

"Well, we fought," Sammy said. "I . . . uh . . ."

"It doesn't matter, son," Carter said. "And you, Dean, your alibi checked out."

"I'm just a peace-loving citizen," Dean replied with a grin.

Chief Carter nodded. "Have a good day, boys."

Sammy slid back into his seat. "Why do you think he's so sure it wasn't me?"

Patty walked up at just that moment with refills on their Cokes. "I heard Tom's neck was broken," she said. "Neither of you boys could have done it. The chief is just being thorough."

"Oh," Dean said, and he gulped. He could have been the one with the broken neck. He turned to Sammy. "Does that place you're in have a VCR?"

"Sure," Sammy said.

"Let's rent some movies and stay up too late."

"Cool."

They paid up and headed down to the video store where Dean already had a membership. Dean made a careful selection of cheesy sci-fi horror films. _Godzilla. King Kong. The Thing._ _The Blob._ "How's this look, Sammy?"

The kid just grinned, and Dean bought a bag full of candy and popcorn so they could make a proper night of it. Then they went back to Sammy's place and started watching. After the second movie, Dean ordered pizza and they both pigged out. After the third, Sammy said, "Have you seen the commercials for that movie, _Scream_ that's coming out on Friday?"

Dean shrugged. "Who hasn't?"

"Maybe we could go see it, if I'm still in town."

"We'll see," Dean said, not wanting to explain that he never intended to watch that movie. The last time he'd seen a slasher film, he'd freaked out and nearly wound up in the psych ward. He did not like people playing with knives, and he wasn't prepared to tell Sammy why.

"Cool," Sammy said, and Dean started their last movie. Sammy was getting way more of a kick out of this than Dean had expected, and he began to be really pissed at the kid's father. Leaving for days at a time made it really hard on the kid to be a kid. It wasn't fair. It sounded like the only time he'd had anything like a normal life was when he'd been staying with that Uncle Bobby guy, and even then he'd been studying up on monsters.

Sammy was nearly falling asleep when the last movie ended. Dean stood up. "I'd better go home," he said.

"Do you have to?" Sammy asked, turning pleading eyes on him.

Dean tried to resist, he really did, but he couldn't take it. "Okay, I'll stay, but I'll have to get up early enough to swing by the house and pick up clothes for school tomorrow. Where's your phone?" Sammy pointed, and Dean picked it up. He dialed and listened to the rings.

"Hello?" Louise said.

"I'm staying the night at a friend's house again," he said quickly. "I'll be by in the morning to get cleaned up." He hung up before she could respond. "And since she doesn't have this number, she won't be calling back."

"You aren't going to get into trouble, are you?" Sammy said, suddenly looking worried, and Dean remembered that the kid had seen Jake demonstrate his irritation earlier in the day.

"Nothing I can't handle," he said. "Now, go to bed."

They both got ready for bed, and Dean climbed back into the second bed in the tiny bedroom. Sammy's head hit the pillow, and he was out like a light. Dean watched him sleep for a couple of minutes, not really sure why he felt such a profound connection to the kid. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before.

Shaking his head at the pointlessness of the question, he rolled over and went to sleep.

He woke up deep in the night, hand clutched to his left side, barely remembering the dream that had woken him. "Dean, you okay?" asked a sleepy voice from the other bed.

"Sure, go back to sleep," he said, and Sammy didn't say anything else. Dean rolled over to lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. The streetlight outside cast angular shadows across the ceiling and the top of the wall. Twice in a week after months of no dreams at all. It was probably just encountering the supernatural again, but his heart was pounding in his chest. Not for the first time, he wondered what that bastard had wanted with him.

The cops and social workers had told him that the man was probably a drug user and an alcoholic, and his eyes had seemed yellow because of jaundice. Dean had given up trying to explain anything to them because he figured out they would quickly decide he was crazy if he told them the truth. He didn't think that jaundice would make a guy's irises flash yellow when he was pleased or angry, and since they put his descriptions of the man's uncanny strength down to youth and terror – and possibly PCP – he hadn't tried to tell them that it was more than that. He'd certainly, apart from fevered ravings, stopped telling them about the way he could pin a person to the wall with a gesture, or freeze them in their tracks just by looking at them.

Even so, he was in psychiatric treatment for almost a year after he got out of the hospital. It took him that long to figure out what the right answers were to all their tests. Then he got the feeling they watched to make sure he didn't go out and torture kittens or smaller kids. Like he would. Like being tortured turned a guy into a prick.

He strove to find a more comfortable position on the cheap mattress, so he could get back to sleep. Eventually, he drifted off again, but when the alarm went off at seven, he sat up feeling like he'd gotten no rest at all.

* * *

Sam offered Dean coffee when he woke up, but he said he had to hurry so he'd be able to shower and change before school. Sam took his own shower and had Lucky Charms for breakfast. Dean was right, eggs were better. He pulled out his books and headed to school, wondering how things would be.

In the middle of first period, they were pulled out into class groups. The freshmen met in the cafeteria. He saw Dean heading with the juniors into the little theater. He was surprised, because he'd assumed Dean was a senior. One of the teachers, Sam didn't know him, got up and gave a speech about how hard it was to lose one of their classmates, and told them that each one of them was going to be called out of class to talk to a grief counselor. Sam wasn't the only one to roll his eyes, but the teacher exhorted them to take it seriously.

Danny from his math class was sitting next to Sam. He muttered, "I knew I should have stayed home sick."

"They'd probably just have made you do it when you came back," Sam said, shrugging.

Danny heaved a sigh. "Yeah."

The day was really weird. Some kids were totally freaked out by Tom's death, but others didn't seem to care. Sam suspected that most of the apathetic ones were faking it. It bothered him that the guy had died, but he didn't have any grief over it. Not the way the cheerleader in his math class seemed to.

Sam looked for Dean in PE, but he wasn't there. Halfway through, he got pulled out to talk to the counselor himself. The teacher who'd talked to them in the cafeteria took him to the library and sent him inside. They'd set up four little cubicles using dividers. Sam went to the one he was directed to and found himself sitting opposite a woman with a very earnest expression. "Hello, Sam. My name is Emma," she said gently. "How are you feeling today?"

Sam shrugged. "Okay, I guess."

"Do you have anything you'd like to talk about?" she asked.

Shaking his head, Sam said, "Not really. I'm fine."

"It's okay if you're not fine, Sam. You know that, right?"

Sam shrugged again. "I don't . . . did you know that I've only been at this school for about a month? I didn't really know the guy who died."

"That's not the only reason you could be upset, and it's okay if you are."

Sam shook his head. "Really, I'm fine. I mean, yeah, I'm sorry the guy died, and I hope his family is okay, but it doesn't really impact me."

"Well, if you discover that you do want to talk to someone, we'll be around all week. You can just tell a teacher and –"

"That's great. I'd just like to go back to class now."

"All right, Sam, if you're sure."

"Thanks," Sam said, and he got up and got out of the library as fast as he could. Nodding to the teacher, he started to head back to the gym.

"Sam?" the teacher said.

Sam stopped and turned. "What?"

"Your father is here. He wants to take you home, so go ahead and get your stuff and go to the office."

Sam stared at him. "My dad . . . but –" He shook his head and took off. If his father was here and wanted to take him out of school, something must be wrong. He ran straight to the locker room and got changed. Stuffing his gym clothes into his backpack, he hurried out to the office where his dad was waiting. "Dad, what's –"

Before he could finish the question, his father lifted him into a giant hug. Sam hugged him back, more than a little surprised. After a few seconds, his dad drew back and gave him one of those looks, the kind he'd started giving him after Dean vanished. Sort of anxious and . . . weird. Then he seemed to notice the school secretaries watching. "Come on, Sammy," he said gruffly, putting his hand on Sam's shoulder and guiding him towards the door.

"Why are you here?" Sam asked. "Did you finish the job?"

"Not yet, I was close, but when I heard that a boy from your school had died, I had to come back." He led Sam to a truck.

"Where's the car?" Sam asked.

"I needed this for the job," he said, unlocking the passenger door. "And I didn't take time to go back for the car when I heard." He turned to Sam and put his hands on Sam's shoulders. "Are you okay? Really okay?"

"Dad, you sound like the grief counselor I just talked to," Sam replied. "I'm fine."

John laughed. "That's a first. No one's ever accused me of sounding like a grief counselor, Sammy."

"You're acting weird, Dad. Is something wrong?"

"A kid got killed in the town I left my son in. Something is definitely wrong."

"Dad, it's okay," Sam said. "It was a ghost, but it's already dealt with."

"What?" His father's eyes went wide. "Wait, let's talk about this at the apartment."

Sam nodded. He climbed into the truck and sat silently while his father drove them back to the apartment. He'd left a hunt to come check on him. That really surprised Sam, but it made him feel good, too. Only, the hunt couldn't be left unfinished, or people could die. He'd have to convince his father that he was all right.

When they got to the apartment, they went upstairs and inside. John took Sam's backpack and put it on the table, then guided him to a chair and sat across from him. "Now, tell me what you mean by 'it was a ghost but it's already dealt with.'"

Sam shrugged. "I heard people talking about the other boys who were with the one who died. They saw the ghost, too, and so I went and did my homework, figured out who she was, and found the grave."

"And dealt with it?" John asked.

"She was killing people, Dad, and I wasn't her target type."

"So you dug up her grave and did the salt and burn on her?" Sam nodded. "And you're sure you got the right grave?"

Sam contemplated the way she'd gone up in flames and nodded. "Yeah, I'm sure." His father stared at him for a long moment, the look in his eyes unreadable. "It's not like I went looking for a hunt, Dad," Sam burst out. "But when one of the kids at school got killed, I had to do something. I didn't know when you'd be back, and I didn't want anyone else to die."

"No, Sam, I understand, but I'm wondering if I shouldn't take you somewhere closer to where my hunt is." Sam shook his head, but John kept going in a reasonable voice. "If you dug up a grave in this town, I don't know if I ought to leave you here. There could be trouble."

"I don't think so, Dad. It was Saturday night, and I did it in the middle of the night, and I'm sure no one saw anything." Except Dean, but he wasn't sure he wanted to tell his Dad about Dean yet. He had kind of an idea, but he wanted to think about it a little longer. He knew for sure that didn't want to leave town quite yet.

"You don't want to leave?"

Sam shook his head. "There's only one more week of school before winter break. I'm settled, I'm fine, and I'm sure nothing will go wrong. You go finish your hunt and then come back."

"All right, Sam, if you're sure."

Sam nodded earnestly. "Maybe we can have Christmas here." And he could invite Dean. He was sure that Christmas had to suck with Jake around.

"We'll see, Sammy," John said. "So, you're off school early, what do you want to do?"

* * *

_As a note, it is illegal for minors to buy ammunition in this country. I have had Mike Wilson ignore the law for the sake of convenience. I am neither advocating the sale of ammunition to minors nor suggesting that this is a normal state of affairs._


	4. Chapter 4

Dean had been surprised not to find Sammy in PE when he'd gotten out of his 'counseling session.' He knew one of the counselors was a hot babe, but had he been sent to her? Of course not. That might have been worth something to him. He was sure he could have wrangled a soft, squishy hug out of her. Instead, he wound up with a way too perceptive dude, who picked up on the guilt he was feeling over Tom's death, but misinterpreted it as survivor's guilt. He'd had to spend like twenty minutes convincing him that he wasn't in need of serious help.

He'd headed back to PE and heard that Sam had been taken to his counseling appointment, but hadn't come back afterwards. There was much debate over why, with one kid claiming he'd seen him taken away by the police.

He decided to swing by the apartment to check on Sammy after school, but when he got close enough to see in the front window, he saw Sammy with a dark-haired man. The man put his arm around Sammy, and Sammy grinned up at him. There was an unfamiliar truck out in front. Evidently Sammy's dad had come back, and not a moment too soon in Dean's book.

He headed on to work. Sammy didn't need him today, obviously. He walked into the front, but Lou was in the garage area talking to a customer. He changed into his coverall and got to work on the Toyota that was next on the list. When the customer left with his car, Dean looked up. "Everything okay, Lou?" he asked

"My youngest sister had a fall," Lou said. "I helped her until our older sister, the nurse, showed up. She'll be fine now."

"Oh, good," Dean said.

"How are you? The police called to verify that we'd worked till eleven on Friday night."

"I'm good. They didn't seriously suspect me, but they had to check me out because of the fight on Wednesday."

"They were serious enough to check up on your alibi."

Dean shrugged. "Yeah, but they also looked into a kid about this tall." He gestured to indicate Sammy's height. "Because he was involved in that fight. I think Chief Carter is just being thorough."

"You find the problem on that Celica yet?"

Dean shook his head. "Still looking."

Work passed uneventfully, and Dean went back to the house at nine. He climbed through the window into his dark bedroom, like always. He closed the window behind him, but the light came on before he turned around. A hand grabbed the collar of his shirt, jerking him backwards, and he stood up straight. "Hello, Jake," he said, his teeth clenched.

"Hello? Is that what you say after treating this house like your own personal hotel? You haven't been home at a decent hour in days, and you didn't even tell us you were staying out all night on Saturday."

"That was an accident, Jake," Dean said, wishing the man would untwist the collar just a bit. It was making it difficult to breathe. "I fell asleep, and you wouldn't have wanted me to call you at four in the morning when I woke up and realized what I'd done."

"And last night?"

"I was with a friend who was freaking out over Tom," Dean said. It was only sort of a lie. "I couldn't leave him like that."

"Oh yeah, you're a Samaritan." Jake shoved him at the bed. "Get to bed, you little bastard." Dean caught himself against the mattress and turned around. "I'll sure be glad when you're gone."

"Likewise," Dean replied, but not before Jake had left the room. It wasn't cowardice that kept him quiet, it was good sense. Jake knew he was stuck until the first, and so did he. There wasn't any point in pissing his foster _father_ off when he didn't need to.

He wondered what was going on at work. The last time Jake had gotten this aggressive was when his boss had given a promotion he'd expected to someone else. He guessed it didn't really matter, and he had to put up with it either way. Shaking his head, he stripped off and went to bed.

* * *

When Sam woke up in the morning, his dad was already gone. He'd tried to get him to go earlier, but his dad had said there wasn't anything he could do till the next day anyway, so it wouldn't make sense to leave before around five a.m. They'd gone out to the local Mexican restaurant for dinner and watched a couple of the movies Dean had rented the previous day. Sam didn't mind watching them again, especially not with his dad.

Dad had also left him some extra money, over and above living expenses. Sam figured he could use it to buy Christmas presents. Last year there hadn't been time, not with that rash of werewolves in Boise, but this year his father's hunt was going to finish the week before. They could have a real Christmas, maybe. And Dean could come over, and . . . and maybe Dad would like him.

Thinking of Dean made Sam wonder if the older boy would come visit tonight. He grabbed his backpack, which he hadn't even unpacked last night. He'd have to scramble to get his homework done during the day. Fortunately, there wasn't anything actually due first period. He scooped up the videos on the way out and stuffed them through the night drop at the store so Dean wouldn't get in any trouble.

School was still a weirdly somber place that morning, but as the day progressed, the kids got more normal. By sixth period everyone was pretty rowdy. Sam wondered if it was some kind of reaction against the seriousness of the morning. Mr. Walker didn't even seem to notice the notes and the pranks. He just kept droning on and on. Sam hadn't managed to catch Dean in PE because the older boy had been in close conference with Josie Meade, but he waited by the park after school. None of Tom's friends was hanging out there for once, and Sam wondered why. Dean walked past, and Sam hurried to catch up with him. "Hi Dean," he said, feeling suddenly awkward and tongue-tied. He had limited experience with asking friends over. As in none.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean said. "Saw your old man was home last night, so I didn't want to interrupt."

Sam grinned. So he'd come by? That was cool. "Yeah, he heard about Tom Carpenter and wanted to make sure I was okay."

"Glad to hear it," Dean said.

"Yeah." Sam swallowed uncomfortably. "So, you want to come over tonight?"

"I've got to go to work," Dean said. "And wouldn't your dad mind if I just showed up?"

"Oh, Dad left before I got up this morning. His hunt wasn't done." Sam looked up to see a weird expression on Dean's face. "I was really surprised that he stopped in the middle of a hunt just to check up on me. He took me out of school and everything."

Dean was silent for a minute, then he shrugged. "You want to come to work with me? You could meet my boss. He's the one who told me the story about Nancy."

"Oh yeah?"

Dean snorted. "Yeah, she used to baby-sit him." Sam blinked. He found that slightly disturbing. He jumped when Dean knocked on the top of his head. "What's wrong, squirt? Where'd you go?"

Sammy shook his head and looked up. "I just . . . I hadn't really thought about what she did when she was alive. It's weird to think of her babysitting some kid."

"Well, ghosts don't come out of nowhere," Dean said. "They had to be someone, right?"

"Yeah." He waded back through the conversation. "Your boss wouldn't mind me hanging out?"

Dean shrugged. "He might make you work, but he wouldn't mind." Lou was just that kind of a guy.

"Cool."

The garage was a great big concrete block building with a sign that said "Lou's Garage" out front. It was painted white, and Sam was surprised that there wasn't any graffiti on it. At one end, there was a glass window and a normal-sized door into an office.

Dean opened the door and walked in, and Sam followed. He was a little nervous. Dean might be sure that his boss wouldn't mind, but that didn't mean he was right.

There was an old guy sitting behind a desk in the office. He looked up when Sam came in and said, "Dean, who's your shadow?" He said it in a friendly way, so Sam gathered his courage and walked further inside.

"Lou, this is Sammy. Sammy, this is my boss, Lou Patterson."

"Hi, Mr. Patterson," Sam said.

"Call me Lou, son," the old man said with a grin. "So, is it Sam or Sammy?"

"Sam, sir," Sam said.

"Are you here to help out?"

"Sure," Sam said.

"Well, then, I think we can put you in a coverall. Dean, start working on the Ford while I see what your young friend is good for." Sam pulled on the coverall with embarrassment. He knew Dean had to be remembering calling him a 'short, apprentice hunter' as he rolled the sleeves and legs up so they didn't drag.

He quickly forgot his embarrassment, though. From helping his dad with the Impala, Sam knew enough about older cars to impress Lou, and he knew all the tools by name and function. He acted kind of like a surgeon's assistant to the old man, handing him the right tools at the right time. It was fun, and it didn't feel the least like work, even when Lou asked him to sweep the floor.

* * *

Dean wasn't surprised when Lou called it a night at eight. He knew it was on account of Sammy, but he didn't mind. The kid had sure had fun trotting around like a mechanic's assistant. He wondered what Sammy's dad was thinking to leave him alone again so soon. So what if the hunt wasn't done, he had a kid to look out for, and he'd already been gone awhile.

He took his coverall off and tossed it in the laundry stack. Sammy followed his example, bubbling over with how great it had been to help out. Dean exchanged an amused look with Lou and was glad he'd thought of it.

They walked back to Sammy's apartment together, and Dean half-hoped to find that truck parked out in front. No such luck. He was beginning to think that Sammy's dad didn't deserve him, but the world was full of adults who didn't really value their children. A lot of those kids wound up in foster care, but plenty didn't, and with the way these two moved around, it was unlikely that they'd ever stayed anyplace long enough for anyone to notice the signs of neglect. Or even if they did, Sammy and his dad didn't stick around for CPS to do anything about it.

Sammy turned on the TV and they sat back to watch _True Lies_ on cable. It was partway in, but Dean's attention was captured by the scene where Jamie Lee Curtis performs a strip tease for Arnold Schwartzenegger. Of course, any woman performing a strip tease was good enough for him.

Sammy made two microwave meals over Dean's protests that popcorn and candy were good enough for him. Instead, they ate Salisbury steak with broccoli and mashed potatoes. It wasn't half bad. Dean was only a little surprised when Sammy pulled out his homework. He rolled his eyes, but didn't comment. Sammy was typical of a certain class of neglected kid. He overperformed in the areas where his father fell down on his job. He kept the apartment clean, despite Dean's initial impression, he got his homework done, made dinner, and managed the household in general.

After the movie was over, he looked at Sammy. "I think I'd really better go home tonight," he said.

Sammy nodded, and Dean was relieved that the kid didn't present him with the puppy dog eyes this time. He didn't know why, but the kid got to him really easily. "See you in school tomorrow," Sammy said.

"If you want to come to work with me after school, feel free," Dean said, and Sammy grinned at him. That grin made Dean feel like a million bucks. "Catch ya later, squirt."

No one was waiting in his bedroom when he got back to the house, so he went to bed without incident.

The next morning, Jake came into the kitchen while Dean was getting breakfast and snagged the cup of coffee that Dean had just poured for himself. Dean didn't even try to take it back, especially since Jake immediately contaminated it with sugar and cream. He just poured himself another cup and sat down with his toast and microwave sausage.

"Lou keeping you late at the garage?" Jake asked, sounding almost normal.

"No, I hung out for awhile last night with a friend."

"Well, I want you to come straight home after school today. That Parker bitch called and said she'd be here at four."

"Right," Dean said. He grimaced. "I guess I'd better call Lou and tell him I'll be late."

"You're gone in two weeks, and she's making a damn visit." Jake rolled his eyes. "So, what are you going to do when you leave? You sticking around town?"

"Not a chance," Dean said. "Joe Green has agreed to sell me a car for next to nothing, so I'm out of here by dawn on the second."

"Huh." Jake shrugged and finished off his coffee. "Be on your best behavior. I don't want that bitch giving us any attitude." He left for work, and Dean rinsed both cups and his plate and put them in the dishwasher.

First period was English, so he zoned out while Mrs. Arbuckle talked about Julius Caesar. He wished he could afford the Mustang that Joe had on his lot, but even at the cut rate price Joe had quoted him, it was out of his reach. One day he'd have himself a classic car. The bell rang, and Dean went to his chemistry class, the one class where he was getting semi-decent grades. His lab partner was most of the reason. Dr. Jones had seen the way Dean was sizing up the girls in the class and had assigned them their lab partners. He knew that because Dr. Jones had told him so outright. Dr. Jones was the Junior class counselor, and Dean kind of liked him. He found him annoying, too, but the guy wasn't a jerk like so many of the guy teachers were. He kept pressing Dean to try harder in his classes, said he knew that if Dean put in some effort, he could get great grades. Since most of the teachers acted like they thought Dean was stupid, it was kind of a nice change, even if the pressure was annoying. Dean hadn't shared his plan of leaving town the instant he turned eighteen with him because he didn't want to give him something else to harp on.

Matt already had the stuff set up for the day's experiment. All Dean had to do was write down whatever Matt said and he had it made. Matt was a geek, but he was cool.

Sammy didn't come up to him in PE, and Dean didn't approach him. He still hadn't decided what to do about the afternoon. He didn't think Lou would mind if Sammy showed up at Dean's usual time even if Dean wasn't there, but he wasn't sure Sammy would go for it.

At lunch, he called Lou. "Hey, Lou, my social worker is showing up today, so I'm going to be at least an hour late."

"Actually, I was going to send you home early tonight. My wife made plans without telling me, so I've got to go to dinner. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"Sure," Dean said. Damn it. "Catch you later, Lou."

He hung up and sighed. Sammy was going to be disappointed. The rest of the day passed in a haze of boredom. He glanced around for Sammy after school, but he didn't see him. Then he caught sight of him waiting by the park again. He wasn't sure if Sammy was trying to preserve Dean's dignity as a junior, or what. He jogged over. "Hey Sammy," Dean said. "Um . . . I've got to go home for a meeting with my social worker, and Lou's going out to dinner tonight, so the garage is off."

Sammy's face fell. "Oh. I . . . I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

"Hey, I'll come over after my stupid meeting, okay?"

Sammy's expression lightened. "That's cool. I'll make dinner."

"Sounds good," Dean said. "I'll be there in an hour or so."

"Okay!" Sammy trotted off and Dean watched him go. It sucked. Right before he was leaving town, he met someone worth sticking around for. On the other hand, Sammy and his dad would be gone before long, too.

He turned towards Jake's place and hoped Miss Prissy Parker would be quick.

* * *

Sam hurried to the grocery store, evaluating the amount of money he had and what he knew how to make. He settled on spaghetti as easy but not microwave, and grabbed some garlic bread to go with it. Then he headed home. He was surprised to see the Impala outside the apartment building, and he slowed as he approached. This changed things a little.

He went up the stairs and opened the door to find his dad already sitting in the chair in front of the TV. He looked really tired, and there was a bandage on his arm. Sam put the bags down and hurried over. "What happened?" he asked.

"Bastard caught me a glancing blow," John said with a grimace. "But I'm fine. Hunt's done."

"Good." Sam sat on the coffee table. "Dad, I need to talk to you."

His father raised his eyebrows, and Sam reminded himself to keep to the reasoned arguments he'd come up with the night before. He'd expected to have another day to polish them, but they would have to be good enough. "Go ahead, Sam," his father said.

"You need back up. I don't like you going on hunts alone."

John grimaced. "Sam, I've told you, you're too young."

"I'm not talking about me, Dad," Sam said, and his father's eyes narrowed. "There's a kid at school, he already knows about hunting, and he's big and strong and an absolutely crack shot. Better than you, even."

"Sammy, how does this kid know about hunting?" John demanded, sitting forward with a wince that made Sam wonder how bad that 'glancing blow' had really been. "Have you been talking about it?"

"Let me explain," Sam said. He hadn't expected the anger. His father subsided again, but his brows still showed that he was upset. "Remember I told you about the ghost?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I . . . I didn't do the hunt alone."

"You pulled another kid, a civilian, in on a hunt?"

Sammy shook his head. "No, Dad, he was there, waiting, when I got to the graveyard. I actually ran into him at the library where I guess he was researching her history, too. Anyway, when I got to the graveyard, all I had was a crappy little spade."

"A spade?" John exclaimed. "Sam, do you know how long it would take you to dig deep enough with a spade?"

Sam nodded. "I figured it out really fast, but this kid, he was already there. He knew about salting and burning without me telling him. He ran off and found a shovel, and . . . well, he did most of the digging." Sam shrugged. "Well, all of the digging, actually. He wouldn't let me. His hands got really badly blistered, but he just kept going."

"Sammy, you can't just trust people like that," John said, but Sam shook his head.

"No, Dad, he's cool. He'd already seen the ghost because she tried to kiss him."

"Kiss him?" John repeated.

"Yeah," Sam said, grimacing. "Gross, huh? But he ran like hell and that's how he got away. So, when Tom died, he knew what had happened, and he didn't want to let anyone else die, either. He just didn't know exactly how to fix it. And I think he kind of blames himself, because she came after him first."

"So this kid dug the grave up and you did the salting and burning?"

Sam nodded. "But it was more complicated than that. He . . . she showed up at the graveyard. It was near her hunting ground, but I figured that since it wasn't in the woods, she wouldn't come. But she did, and she tried to get him."

"What?" his father exclaimed, eyes going wide. "Is he okay?"

"Mostly. I mean, she did kiss him, and he was all loopy after that, but I managed to get the bones burned before she killed him. Then I filled the grave back in because he was too whacked out to do much for awhile. I mean, he was unconscious for like five minutes after she was gone, and he hit his head really hard when she smashed him against the tree."

"And this is a kid?" John demanded. "Is he okay?"

"Well, he's seventeen," Sam said, "and he's fine. We went shooting the next day."

* * *

John stared at his son. "You went shooting?" he asked.

Sam nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, and he's a crack shot. I set up all sorts of crazy things, and he just shot right through them."

Keeping his voice calmer than his mood, John said, "How much time have you been spending with this kid?"

Despite his effort to sound normal, Sam seemed to pick up on his reaction. "Um . . . a lot," he faltered. "He's really nice."

"Nice isn't the point, Sam," John said. "Safe is."

"Oh, it's safe," Sam assured him instantly. "I'd never let anything happen to him."

John closed his eyes. "That's not what I meant, son," he said. He scooted forward, ignoring the pain his arm gave him when he reached for Sam's shoulders. "I don't know anything about this kid. How old did you say he was?"

"Seventeen," Sam said, and John grimaced. Perceptive as always, Sam put his finger right on the issue John had with that. "Dad, he thinks I'm fourteen."

"Still, isn't it a little weird for a senior to be spending this much time with a freshman?"

"He's not a senior, actually, he's a junior."

John shook his head. "Sam, you need to be careful. What is a boy that old doing spending this much time with a kid your age? It's –"

"He's learning about hunting," Sam said, as if that made it better somehow. "And we watched movies, and he took me out for breakfast and paid for lunch. He's a good guy, Dad. He really is."

"That's as may be, but we're not staying here," John said gently. Sam was so seldom boyish like this any more that it disturbed him to have to give him bad news. "We'll be moving on soon."

Unexpectedly, Sam nodded. "I know. I was thinking we could take him with us."

John's jaw dropped. "Sam! He's not a puppy. We can't just pick this kid up and drag him away from his family and his –"

"He doesn't have a family, Dad, he's a foster kid," Sam said, and John gaped at him. "Not only that, his foster father is a physically abusive turd who's really mean to him." John was still trying to figure out why his son felt the need to differentiate between physically abusive and mean when Sam went on. "And he's planning on leaving town himself on the first."

"I am not helping some kid run away from home, Sam," John said firmly, though he did have qualms about the abusive situation. He'd need to know more before he took steps, though.

"He's not running away," Sam said. "He turns eighteen on the first, and he's going to quit school and try to find his family. I figured he could come with us, since I don't think he knows where to get started. We go all over, so he'd have lots of opportunities to look."

Clearly Sam had thought this one through. He had to admire his boy. He was smart and creative, but this was a crazy plan. "I can't just bring some strange kid along on hunts, Sam. Besides, why's he a junior if he's almost eighteen?"

Sam shrugged. "I never asked. Anyway, he's strong and smart and lots of fun, and he's not afraid to work hard. His fighting technique is a little sloppy, but his marksmanship makes up for that, and you could train the sloppiness out of him in no time, I'm sure."

"Sam, this is not reasonable. You can't expect me –"

"What if Dean was out there like this, a foster kid with a crappy family?" John looked away from Sam's pleading eyes, his gut clenching at the thought. He knew Dean had to be dead by now. No demon had any reason to keep him alive, but the image Sam painted was not a pleasant one. And he apparently wasn't done. "What if he was about to go out and look for us, and probably hunt along the way because he knows about that stuff? Wouldn't you want someone like us to take him in and show him the ropes? You always said the second hunt is the most dangerous, and, Dad, he's only had one."

John took a deep breath and let it out slowly so that he wouldn't yell at his son. Sam didn't cope well with that, and John had forced himself to learn how to deal with his younger son when he no longer had Dean to run interference between them. "All right, Sammy, I'll meet him, but I'm not promising anything."


	5. Chapter 5

There was a knock at the door, and Sam's eyes lit up. "Oh good, that will be him!" Sam said.

John looked over towards the sound, startled. "What?"

"I told him I'd make him dinner tonight. I didn't know you were going to be back."

John knew when he was beaten. "I'm going to go get changed, Sam."

"You'll like him, Dad, I promise."

John got up and went into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. He hoped the kid turned out to be obviously unsuitable, so that he wouldn't have to make up some excuse to fob Sam off. Their life was strange and complicated enough without adding an unknown quasi-adult into the mix. He shucked his jeans, which still had blood on them from his cut, and put a shirt on over his t-shirt. He pulled on some decent pants. When he opened the door, he heard the two voices, one deep and one still youthfully high.

"Your father won't want me around, Sammy," the older boy said, and John raised his eyebrows. How had the kid convinced Sam to let him call him Sammy? John only got away with it once in awhile these days. "I should –"

"No, he already knows you're coming," Sam said persuasively. "He just went to get changed. And I'm making spaghetti."

"Sammy, I don't want to intrude."

"You're not intruding," Sam said firmly. "Would you fill this pan with water?"

There was a second's pause, and then the older boy said, "Sure, Sammy." There was an odd combination of amusement and resignation in his tone. John stepped through the door, but remained quiet, knowing that the dusty fake fern that decorated the dining room would shield him from view. He wanted to get a look at the way they interacted.

Sam had pulled out one of the smaller pots and was emptying a jar of spaghetti sauce into it. The other boy – whose name he realized he still didn't know – had his back to him, filling the large stewpot with water in the sink. Sam had definitely taken over the food situation with a vengeance. He'd badgered John until he'd picked up a basic supply of cooking utensils and whenever he could, he insisted on making dinner. John had been mildly surprised when Sam had rebelled against the constant stream of take out and junk food. Dean had never minded – or if he had, he hadn't said anything. John pushed away the thick sadness that always came over him when he thought of his elder son. The son he'd failed to protect.

The boy Sam was so keen on turned away from the sink and brought the stew pot over to the stove. John lost track of what they were doing at that point, staring at the boy's face. At Mary's face. His heart caught in his throat. Sam looked like Mary's father, but Dean had always looked like Mary. It had been both a comfort to him and a pain throughout Dean's boyhood to see Mary's face daily. Seventeen, Sam had said. Dean would be seventeen. His eighteenth birthday was coming up at the end of January. _He knew about salting and burning without me telling him_. John shook his head, utterly stunned. _He's an absolutely crack shot. Better than you, even_. Dean had taken to shooting like he was born to it. At six he'd been a better marksman than most hunters ever got to be.

By God, Sam had found him. Sam had found Dean. And he didn't even know it.

John's heart was pounding in his chest, and he felt tears collecting in his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose to hold them back and stayed where he was, watching. Clearly Dean didn't know he'd been found, either, which made for an interesting question. John rubbed his shaking hands together. It had been five years, but Sammy hadn't changed that much. Dean had in that he was a lot taller, and features that had looked outsized when he was smaller now fit better. He could see why Sam might not have put it together. He hadn't seen very many faces grow from childhood to maturity. Dean should recognize Sam, though, and that made John wonder what had happened in the intervening years.

"What kind of sauce is that, munchkin?" Dean asked Sam.

"I don't like 'munchkin' any better than 'kid,'" Sam groused.

"Whatever you say, short stuff."

Rolling his eyes, Sam picked up the jar. "Mushroom and roasted garlic. It was on sale." Sam grabbed the carton of salt and put a pinch in the pot of water.

"What's that for?" Dean asked.

"Makes the water boil faster," Sam said.

Dean knit his brows. "I think I heard that in chemistry class. Huh, imagine a squirt like you knowing that." He tousled Sam's hair, and Sam just glared at him. He didn't smack him or shove him away, or any of the things John had seen him do to other hunters, or even Bobby sometimes. No, the boys didn't know they were brothers, but they did recognize the bond between them on some level.

John took a deep, calming breath. He had to hold himself in check. If Dean didn't know, there was no telling how he might react to being confronted with the information. A logical part of his mind also pointed out that this might just be wishful thinking on his part. His emotions were convinced, but he would do better to confirm his suppositions before he did anything rash. He'd just propose Sam's idea to him and see how he reacted. Then they could go on from there.

He rubbed his eyes to rid them of any signs of tears and took several deep breaths to control himself. This was going to take all his skills at dissimulation. He reached back and shut the door audibly, coming out from behind the fake plant. "Sam, you want to introduce me to your friend?"

Sam grinned. "Dad, this is Dean." John stopped dead. His heart leapt in his chest while his brain tried to convince his emotions that the name wasn't proof. Sam misinterpreted his reaction. "I know, weird, huh?" Dean was just looking at him politely, looking slightly stuffed. "Dean, this is my Dad."

"Hello, Mr. Beckett," Dean said politely, walking over to shake John's hand.

"Call me John. It's nice to meet you, son. Sam's been talking about you all evening."

"Has he now?" Dean asked, giving Sam a panicked look that John found incredibly touching. He fortified himself against emotion. He didn't want to let either boy know how he was feeling, Dean because it might scare him off, Sam because he didn't know how Sam would react to the truth.

"Nothing bad. He says you handled yourself well on the hunt you two carried out."

"I don't know how well I did, sir," Dean said, looking embarrassed. "She almost got me."

"You were distracting her," Sam put in earnestly, clearly trying to put Dean in the best light. Little did he know that John wasn't leaving this town without his son. Without both his sons. "And I would probably still be there if you hadn't dug the hole."

Dean was clearly uncomfortable with the strange adult, and he also obviously didn't recognize John. Little as Sam had changed apart from height, John knew he'd changed not at all. Something, whether it was trauma or something else, was keeping Dean from recognizing them. Clearly seeing them wasn't going to jar the memories loose. John swallowed convulsively, forcing his emotions down.

He effaced himself somewhat, sitting down next to the TV and pretending to read the paper. His own perturbation made that easy, and Sam would likely just interpret it as him withholding judgment until he'd seen more. Dean gradually grew more comfortable, and watching him banter with Sam brought a lump into John's throat. Even if this Dean turned out not to be his son Dean, he wasn't sure he could bring himself to leave the kid behind, not with the way he and Sam got along. Just before dinner, Sam excused himself to go to the bathroom, and John wondered what Dean would do. An ordinary teenager would probably come over and try to talk about something polite with him. Dean walked over and sat down on the sofa, and John was expecting some amiably awkward small talk.

"Sir, I have a bone to pick with you. I know it's not really my place, but . . . it's important."

John sat up straighter and folded the paper. "Yes?" he asked, a little startled by the direct approach.

"You shouldn't leave Sammy alone this much. It's not good for him."

"I don't really have a choice," John said, feeling unexpectedly defensive. "You surely wouldn't want me to take him on a hunt with me, would you?"

"Of course not, sir," Dean said soberly. "But there's got to be another option. What about this Uncle Bobby character, was there a reason you took Sammy away from him?"

"A boy belongs with his father," John said. Having Dean not more than two feet away from him was emphasizing that aphorism in John's heart.

"So it's not that Bobby did anything he shouldn't have?" Dean asked intently.

It took John a moment to realize what Dean was suggesting, but he shook his head. "No, of course not, but we imposed on him for nearly three years. I didn't like not having Sam around, and Sam wanted to come with me. He's old enough now to look out for himself, not like when he was eight."

"Look, I know it's none of my business, sir, but –"

Sam emerged from the bathroom, and he looked startled to see them talking. "What's up?" he asked, as always hyper-aware of the mood of a room. Dean's eyes met John's, and they agreed silently not to bring Sam into the conversation.

"Nothing, Sammy," Dean said with a grin. He stood up and walked towards him. "Don't we need to get the garlic bread into the oven?"

"Oh, I almost forgot!" They went to finish making dinner, and John contemplated that conversation. Dean . . . he swallowed his dismay at the thought that Dean had been out here all these years alone. Regardless, Dean didn't know him, and he was young enough not to recognize that the kind of silent communication they'd just shared didn't come easily to strangers. John started planning his approach. He'd have to play this exactly right, or Dean wouldn't go for it.

He'd be damned if he was going to find his son just to lose him again.

* * *

Dean had been surprised that John had let him have his say. He'd really expected the man to shut him up and run him out of the apartment the minute he'd spoken, but he couldn't let it lie. Sammy needed someone to stand up for him, and no one else might ever care enough. He was glad, though, that John hadn't wanted to bring Sammy into their discussion, because Sammy got a little too defensive of his father. It would have made the conversation difficult to say the least.

Over dinner, Sammy tried really hard to make everyone comfortable, so Dean exerted himself to charm the kid's father. Sammy clearly wanted John to like Dean and Dean to like John. For a kid with such an old head, he was really young. It was hard to talk, though. There were so many pitfalls, and Dean hated awkward conversations. He didn't want to bring up family, because he didn't have one, and nobody who'd lost a wife and a son wanted to talk about it. Work was out, because John said he didn't want to talk hunting over dinner. School was kind of a boring topic, and Dean rarely remembered when he had homework, much less what it was about.

They managed, though, cobbling together a conversation about old movies, music and cars. After awhile, John fixed him with a serious look. "So, Dean, Sam tells me you're planning on quitting school to go looking for your family."

Dean nodded, though he shot the kid a death glare. Sammy pretended not to see it. "Yeah," he said dismissively. "When I turn eighteen."

"When's that?"

"Two weeks from today."

"Huh." John looked thoughtful. "You know, you're right," he said after a few moments, and Dean wasn't sure he knew what he was right about. "I do leave Sammy alone too much."

"Dad, it's Sam," Sammy said. "And it's fine. Dean, it's fine."

"No, it's not." Dean shifted with embarrassment when he realized that he and John had spoken together. Sam's brows drew together as he looked back and forth between them.

John cleared his throat, and Dean looked over at him nervously. "I have a proposal to make, Dean."

"A proposal?" Dean repeated, not sure what to expect.

"Sam and I will be leaving soon, looking for another hunt." John glanced over at Sam, and Dean followed his eyes to see Sam staring at his father with hope. Dean had no idea what was going on here. "How would you like to come with us?"

Dean's jaw dropped. "Say what?"

"Do you know where to look for your parents at all?"

Dean blinked at him. "I don't . . . I was going to go back to Garrettville. That's where I was found, wandering the streets."

"Found?" Sammy asked, and John felt his breath catch.

Dean nodded uncomfortably. "Yeah, I . . . I got away from some guy who had hold of me. I was positive he wasn't my dad, but I couldn't tell them anything about my dad and the police couldn't make up their minds. Anyway, I got picked up in Garrettville, but . . . I'm pretty sure I'm not from there."

"Well, that would be a good place to start," John said. Keeping his emotions under control was growing more difficult with each new piece of information. Found? Pretty sure? No wonder he'd never contacted anyone. He had amnesia. John would give his eyeteeth to know if it was natural or unnatural in origin. He wanted to go to Garrettville as much as Dean did, now. The information he could glean from the police records would be invaluable in figuring out just what had happened to his son. He doubted the boy could tell him everything, even if he would. "We could go there next, if you wanted, so you could start your search."

"What about your hunting?" Dean asked.

"That takes us all over the place," John said. "We can follow whatever leads you find, and in the meantime, I can show you some of the ropes of hunting, because I get a feeling that you're not going to stop now that you've started."

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it again. "No, I probably won't," he agreed. "But . . . you don't want some inexperienced kid in your way when you're hunting, do you, sir?"

"Are you interested at all, Dean?" John said, and Dean could feel the almost desperate tension radiating from across the table where Sammy was sitting. He couldn't deny that kid anything, it seemed.

Dean shrugged. "Yeah, I think so. But we'd have to talk about it more."

"We would indeed," John said. "There would be rules, and you should probably know them up front."

"Okay."

"First, you'd have to start slowly. You don't know much at this point, and I'm not taking an inexperienced kid out into the field to get killed."

"But Dad, I –"

"Hush, Sam," John said. "Dean?"

"Not a big fan of getting killed, sir, but what will I be doing?"

"You'll be with Sam, and you'll be finishing school."

"School?" Dean exclaimed. "I'm eighteen in two weeks. I –"

"It's my rule, Dean. You will finish school, and that will mean I'm not leaving Sam alone any more."

Dean blinked at him, and he realized that John was using his own argument to get him to agree. Why did he want Dean to come with them so much? Could neither of them deny the kid's puppy dog eyes? "Huh, I hadn't thought of it like that."

"And I'd be teaching you about how hunting works, and you two could do research for me, help me figure out what's going on. And slowly, as you get more knowledgeable, and I'm confident about your self-defense skills, you could start coming on hunts with me."

"And meanwhile, I can keep looking for my family." Dean found this proposal extremely attractive. He didn't really want to be on his own, he just wanted to be away from Jake and Louise. Sammy was a great kid, and if he really didn't like the arrangement, he could just cut out later. It was a win win, and he wouldn't necessarily have to buy a car right away. "Where's your truck? I didn't see it outside."

"I borrowed that one," John said. "I needed it for the job I was doing. Did you see that black Impala when you came up?"

"The '67 Chevy?" Dean asked. He had. It looked like a sweet ride. "I sure did. It's a great car."

John nodded. "It's mine." He tilted his head. "Just how much do you know about cars?"

Dean shrugged. "A thing or two," he said.

"Dean has a job at the garage here in town, Dad," Sammy said. "I helped out there yesterday. It was cool!"

"That's great, son," John said, smiling at Sammy, and Dean had to admit, it was clear that they loved each other.

"Well, I can't leave until the second of January," Dean said.

"Why not?" John asked.

"I'm on probation," Dean replied, figuring he'd better be honest. This was sort of in the nature of a job interview. "One of the conditions is that I stay with my foster parents until I turn eighteen, or they'll put me in prison to serve the sentence I would have served if I hadn't gotten probation."

John's brows drew together. "Sammy said your foster father is abusive."

Dean was going to have to have a chat with Sammy about his loose tongue. "It's nothing I can't handle. It's only two more weeks, and I just saw the social worker today. Everything's set and ready, and I won't be able to go ask questions of the police in Garrettville if I screw it up."

John nodded slowly. "No, that makes sense, I guess."

"Jake's just an overgrown bully," Dean said. "Mostly I avoid him."

"What are you on probation for?" John asked, and Dean shrugged.

"I stole a car. I was trying to run away."

"Didn't you tell the cops that Jake shoves you around?" Sammy asked, exhibiting a touching belief in the judicial system.

"Sure, but they didn't believe me." Dean shook his head at Sammy's outraged expression. "Sammy, I'm a foster kid with no history. They don't believe people like me unless we have evidence on video tape. And Jake is a fine, upstanding, churchgoing citizen."

"He didn't go on Sunday," Sammy said belligerently.

"Anyway, John, I can handle it."

John nodded noncommittally, and Dean grimaced.

* * *

A few minutes later, Dean got up and excused himself, heading for the bathroom. Once the door closed, John turned to Sam. "What exactly happened on Sunday?"

Sam turned to him with a look of fury on his young face. "Jake grabbed him and shoved him against a wall so hard that the wall shook. For no reason at all!"

"How did you come to see this?" John asked, controlling his own anger at the image. He wouldn't have wanted Sam to be exposed to something like that, and he certainly would never have wanted Dean to experience it.

"I wasn't supposed to. Dean was kind of upset that I saw it. See, Dean stayed the night here on Saturday, because it was five when we got back from the hunt. Then he said Jake and Louise would be at church, so we could go by his place for him to get cleaned up and changed."

"So, how was he afterwards?" John asked, considering Dean's insistence that he go back. John's instincts were saying to grab the kid, pack their shit and get the hell out of here, but Dean wouldn't understand or cooperate with that plan.

"Upset, like I said."

"Was he injured? Any bruises that you could see?"

Sam shook his head. "Nothing like that, but he shoved him into a wall!"

John nodded, but Dean was coming out, and he didn't want to continue the conversation in front of him. He cleared his throat. "All right, Dean, I accept that you know what you can handle," John said, and Dean gave him a startled look. "Now, does anyone want ice cream?"

Both boys agreed with an alacrity that told him that they were tired of the serious conversation. They went downstairs and Dean duly admired the Impala. John showed him under the hood, and Dean discussed the engine with him intelligently. He was grateful for the darkness, because neither boy could see the way his eyes glittered. Standing there with Dean, listening to how his early training had stuck and flourished, it made him feel incredibly proud. Finally, they all piled into the front seat. John took the opportunity to dash the tears from his eyes.

Dean recommended a place he called the best ice cream in town. It was an old fashioned ice cream parlor, the kind seldom found these days. It gave John the weirdest feeling to be sitting in such a family atmosphere with both his sons . . . who didn't know they were brothers. It was surreal. He kept catching himself scanning Dean's face to be sure he wasn't imagining things, that his son was really sitting there. Not wanting Dean to freak out, he desisted, but it was a struggle.

Afterwards, Dean looked at his watch and said it was time for him to go home. John insisted on driving him, figuring he wanted to know where his son was living. He thought he might just pay this Jake a visit once Dean was out of his control.

Dean walked into the house through the front door for once, not really wanting John to see him go around the side and climb in the window. Jake's coat was hanging on the hall tree, so he knew Jake was home. One of the reasons he went in by his window, in truth, was because it made it easier to avoid Jake.

He walked past the kitchen, heading towards his room, but a voice behind him made him turn around. "Going to work, were you?" Jake asked, and Dean could tell he was drunk. "Lying little bastard."

Dean shrugged. "I never said I was going to work."

"You let me believe it, or you can bet I would have made you stay here," Jake said. "You spend too much time out on the town as it is. If you have your way, there'll be a whole slew of bastards born nine months after you leave town and can't be held accountable."

Dean shook his head. It looked like the bartenders had kicked Jake out early tonight. "I'm going to hit the sack," he said, turning away. "I've got –"

A hard hand seized his collar, dragging him backwards. "You have work to do, boy. The floor in here is filthy."

Dean hit both sides of the door frame as Jake pulled him through. "Let go of me, Jake!" Dean growled.

"Make me," Jake taunted, and they both knew that Dean didn't dare. If Jake called the police, Dean went straight to the county lock up. "Now, mop the damned floor." He gave Dean a shove that sent him stumbling across the kitchen. Dean regained his footing and controlled his temper rigidly.

It wasn't the first time Jake had made up some stupid task for Dean to do in the middle of the night because he was bored and wanted someone to torment. Probably Louise was already passed out in the bedroom, or he'd be on her ass. Dean went to get the mop and the bucket from the garage, which was a couple steps down from the kitchen. Just as he started down, he felt Jake push him from behind. Already on one foot, he couldn't catch his balance in time to keep from falling. He twisted to avoid landing on his face, and his right arm came down across the lawn mower. Dean felt a snap, and liquid pain shot through him.

Jake still stood at the top of the steps. "Get up!" he ordered. Dean lay on his back, trying to figure out what had just happened. His arm hurt like crazy. "Dean?"

"Shut up!" Dean growled. He started trying to sit up, and hissed at the pain.

"What's wrong with your arm?" Jake asked, and he sounded confused.

"I think it's broken, you jackass."

"Son of a bitch." Jake came the rest of the way down the steps. "It's your fault for being so clumsy, you know."

"Clumsy?" Dean asked, glaring at him.

"You tripped and fell, right?"

Dean contemplated his options. An investigation would delay his leaving, and social services would probably take him out of town instantly. He glowered up at Jake. "Right," he said sourly.

"I'd better get you to the hospital."

"You're too drunk to drive."

"I'm fine, and it's not like you can drive."

Dean didn't have much of a choice, unless he went next door and got old Mrs. Kirchner to take him. She was past seventy, and he didn't trust her driving stone cold sober. Jake helped him up and got him into the car with Dean gritting his teeth all the way. Then he went inside, leaving Dean in the car in the garage. He was gone for like five minutes, and when he came out, he was wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt with his jacket over the top. Dean rolled his eyes. This was going to be a real piece of theater.

He leaned his head back against the car seat and resigned himself to looking like an idiot.

"I knew you'd like him," Sam said as soon as they'd reached the apartment. "I told you, didn't I?"

"You did," John replied. "Go on to bed, Sam. You've got school tomorrow."

"I've got some homework to finish, then I'll go, okay?"

John nodded. "No more than half an hour, tiger."

"Won't even take that long," Sam said, and he went to get his book bag. John grabbed a beer, then went and sat down across from the TV, his back to Sam. Dean. It was Dean, wasn't it? Now that the kid wasn't in front of him, it was damned hard to believe. He needed some kind of a double check, but so much fit that it was hard to deny.

Dean having amnesia would explain why he'd never contacted them, one thing that Bobby and he had agreed would be the kid's first act upon getting free. Neither of them had ever really considered it, probably because it sounded far too soap opera for reality. It didn't explain the failure of all those scrying spells, but John was sure that they'd find a reason for that at this rate.

Sam was a big clue. Sam letting this strange kid call him Sammy and tousle his hair, the way they teased and talked, it all pointed to them being brothers. Yes, Sam could make friends with a kid at school, he'd done it before, but nothing this intense. John was sure this hadn't been going on before he'd left on Thursday, so it had happened exceptionally quickly.

This Dean was seventeen, he looked just like Mary, and . . . and he felt like Dean. He seemed like Dean, and John was almost sure it wasn't wishful thinking.

"I'm done," Sam announced suddenly. "Good night, Dad."

"Good night, Sammy," John said.

He heard the door close behind Sammy and held onto himself for another five minutes. Then he put his face in his hands and gave up controlling anything but volume. He had just sent his eldest son, the one he hadn't seen in five years, back into an abusive environment because if he tried to stop him, he'd lose him. It was almost more than he could take, and he'd taken a lot over the years.

Sam stood by the park after school. It was barely possible that Dean had cut PE or been sent somewhere during that period for some reason. He fidgeted anxiously, not sure what to think. Mary Beth Hanson walked by, and Sam cleared his throat. "Mary Beth?" he said.

She turned, her brows drawing together. "Sammy, right?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, too anxious to worry about which name she used. "Do you know where Dean is?"

She shook her head. "He was absent, and I haven't heard anything."

"So, he's at home, then?"

She snorted. "Not if he can help it. Try the garage."

Sam nodded. "Thanks," he said, then took off, heading for Lou's. She was right. Dean wouldn't be at that house if he could avoid it.

When he reached the garage, he went in the front door, but Lou wasn't in the office. He stepped through into the garage, and Lou looked up. "Hi, Sam. Dean's not here."

"Do you know why? He wasn't at school."

"He broke his arm late last night," Lou said. "He called me an hour or so ago."

Sam stared at him. "How?"

"He said something about falling down the stairs," Lou said. "I'm sure he'll be at school tomorrow."

"Thanks."

Sam walked home anxiously. He didn't think he'd better go over to Jake's place. Dean would probably be mad if he was there, and if he wasn't, there wouldn't be any point. He went upstairs to the apartment where he found his dad cleaning the guns they'd used on Sunday. "Sam, you didn't clean the guns after you used them."

"I know, Dad. I'm sorry."

"I thought you said you were going to the garage after school."

"Dean wasn't at school today," Sam said.

His father stood up abruptly. "Do you know why?"

"Lou said he broke his arm last night," Sam said. "Falling down the stairs. But Dean wouldn't . . ." He trailed off, silenced by the fury his father was suddenly radiating.

"I'll be back, Sam. Stay here."

"Okay, Dad," Sam said. He watched his father leave the apartment and wondered if Jake was going to survive the night.


	6. Chapter 6

John parked the Impala in front of Jake's house. When he saw the cutesy sign above the door that read _The Metcalf Family_ , he realized that he hadn't even known the bastard's last name. He strode up to the front door and knocked. After a few moments, a woman came to the door. "Is Dean here?"

She shrugged. "I left him in his room."

John stepped forward, and she stepped back automatically, letting him in. "Which way?"

"Who are you?" she asked belatedly.

"John Beckett. Which way?"

Without even asking him why he wanted to know, she led him to a bedroom at the back of the house. Dean wasn't there. She went to a door along the hall and thumped it. "Dean? You in there?"

John walked over and opened what was clearly the bathroom door. It, too, was empty. "Where is he?" he demanded.

"How should I know? He's always going in and out that bedroom window of his. I told Jake we ought to nail it shut, but he's too lazy."

"Is your husband at work?" John asked.

"Yeah."

"When will he be home?"

"Around five. Why?"

John turned his back on her and left the house. He went around to the window to Dean's bedroom and looked to see if he could follow the boy's trail, but there wasn't anything to follow. He ground his teeth. He should have gone with his instincts, grabbed Dean and hit the road. He stalked back to the car and drove to the apartment. Sam was sitting at the table, homework spread around him but not getting done.

"Where'd you go?" he asked as soon as John walked in.

"Sammy, do you have any idea where Dean might go to be alone?"

Sam shook his head, his jaw going slack. "Just that he wouldn't stick around at Jake's place."

John grimaced. "Right. Who would you ask?"

"I don't know, maybe Lou. Maybe Mary Beth or Josie. Or Kate."

"Mary Beth, Josie and Kate?" John asked, momentarily diverted.

"He's always with some girl," Sam said.

John contemplated his options, and they weren't good. He wasn't bearding some teenaged girl on the subject. For one thing, her father would probably object. "Get your homework done, Sam. He'll turn up." John went back to cleaning his guns, and Sam worked on his homework. John kept an eye on the clock and at five exactly, he said, "I'm going out. I'll be back soon, hopefully with Dean. You stay here in case he shows up. Have him call home to let me know if he does, okay?"

"Sure," Sam said. "Dad, be careful. Jake's just a person."

"I'm not going to kill him, Sam. I'm just going to scare him."

"Okay."

John went back out into the dwindling twilight. Solstice was coming soon, so the nights were almost as long as they got. The drive over to the Metcalf residence wasn't long, and he spent it forcing his anger into a cold knot so it wouldn't get away from him. The last thing he needed was to kill Dean's foster father. It wouldn't help anything.

He walked up and knocked on the door. The woman answered again. She turned. "Jake, it's for you!" she called.

"Who is it?" a male voice yelled back.

John walked past her and inside. She made no attempt to stop him, he was interested to note. He turned into a living room that was pleasant and neat enough. Jake was sitting in a recliner. "My name is John, and we're going to have a little chat, Jake. First, is Dean back?"

"Nope," the woman said as she walked down the hall and into another room.

"What's your interest in Dean?" Jake asked.

"Well, for starters, I actually give a damn about the boy," John said. Jake rolled his eyes. "And I'm taking him on as partner when he turns eighteen."

"The more fool you," Jake said. "He's a worthless little shit. Just last night –"

John closed the distance between them and pulled Jake to his feet by the front of his shirt. "You shoved him, made him break his arm and then got him to lie about it, yeah, I know."

"Let me go!" Jake ordered.

John swung the fat bastard around and slammed him into the wall that divided the kitchen from the front entryway. He heard something fall off the wall on the other side and smash, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Jake stared at him, and John could see the fear in his eyes. He smiled.

* * *

Dean dragged himself back to the house, all too aware that he'd stayed away long enough that his pain meds had worn off. He just couldn't stand being there any more, not after the sanctimonious way Jake had lectured him in the emergency room about responsibility and how he shouldn't be coming home so late anyway. The ER doctors had finally shooed him away, thank God.

Less than two weeks now. If he just kept reminding himself of that, maybe he could keep from strangling Jake or running away. Less than two weeks.

He went in the front door because he was seriously not up to climbing in the window. Climbing out had nearly made him pass out. He'd face Jake or Louise or whatever, but he doubted either of them would have much to say to him. Jake had been silent on the drive home, and he hadn't said anything that morning when he'd left for work.

No one was in the kitchen when he passed, so he glanced into the living room. The sight that met his eyes made him come to a dead stop. Jake sat in his usual recliner, only he looked absolutely scared shitless, and the reason sat in the chair on the other side of the end table. John Beckett sat there, and Dean could sense the seething anger that emanated from him.

"Um . . . hi, John," he said.

"How are you feeling, Dean?" John asked, standing up. Dean noticed Jake flinch when John moved. He couldn't see any damage, but he was well aware that damage could be confined to portions of the anatomy that clothing covered.

"I missed my last pain pill," Dean said. "Other than that, I'm peachy."

John's eyes raked Dean's arm in its air cast. "When are they putting on the real cast?"

"They said to come back tomorrow and they'd see if the swelling was down enough," Dean said. "What's going on?"

"Jake and I have agreed that you're going to spend Christmas and New Year's with me and Sammy. We'll come back to meet your social worker and deal with the red tape on the first."

"But . . . I . . ." Dean shook his head, feeling very stupid. "Okay."

"So, why don't you take me to your room and we can pack your things?"

"Okay," Dean said, and he went to his room, feeling dazed.

"Where are your pills?"

"Louise had them. She said she didn't trust me with them."

"Louise!" John bellowed. She emerged from her bedroom, looking frightened. "Bring me Dean's pills, and anything else you might have been keeping for him." The way he said it made her sound like some kind of sneak thief, and Dean stared at him in shock. "Okay, do you have any kind of suitcase?"

"Under the bed," Dean said.

"Is this box yours?" John asked, pulling out the box that contained a few things that Dean didn't want anyone to see. It was one of his few extravagances, a lockbox designed for documents. Among other things, it was where he kept his dream journal, because he always hoped that some fact would come to light from his dreams that would help him find his family. Dean nodded, and John put it by the door, then pulled Dean's cheap duffel bag out. Louise showed up with his pills and a glass of water. John took them, scanned the bottle, then gave Dean two pills and the glass of water. "Do you have anything else of his?" Louise shook her head. "Okay, if he has any clothing in a laundry pile somewhere, would you go get it?"

"He does his own laundry," she said, gesturing towards his personal hamper.

"Fine, then go away."

Louise left and Dean looked at John. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because I don't like bullies," John said shortly, and he started bundling Dean's clothes into the duffel. They mostly fit, because Dean generally paid for his own stuff, and he'd been saving his money for the car and leaving town. When the duffel was full, John disappeared for a few minutes and came back with a couple of canvas bags like the one Sammy had used for the guns on Sunday. He packed up the rest of Dean's stuff, not excluding the laundry. "Now, Dean, is there anything else here that's yours, because we probably won't get another chance to come back for it."

Dean shook his head. "I travel light," he said.

"Good. I'll be back in a second." He took two of the bags out and then came back. "Come on, Dean, we're going now."

"But I'm supposed to stay here."

"Are you allowed to have sleepovers?" John asked.

"Yeah," Dean said, shaking his head. "But –"

"So, you're going to have a whole lot of them during this last two weeks. Jake doesn't want to endanger his checks from the state, and we'll see to it that the social worker is satisfied. Come on, Dean, you're not staying another night under this roof."

Dean nodded, and John shouldered the last bag. He put his hand on the back of Dean's neck and squeezed, a gesture that Dean found comforting and strangely familiar. Keeping his hand there, he guided Dean out of the house. He got Dean settled in the passenger seat and then drove away.

* * *

Sam had forced himself to finish his homework. He'd even done as much work as he could on an essay that wasn't due till after winter break, and by then they'd probably be long gone. His father still wasn't back, and Dean hadn't shown up. He was about ready to walk to Jake's place to find out what was happening when he heard the Impala pull up. He ran to the front door and down the stairs. By the time he got down there, his father was backing out of the car with Dean cradled in his arms. There was some kind of plastic blow up thing on his arm.

"Is he okay?" Sam asked in a whisper.

"He's sleeping. Go open the door for me."

Sam nodded and ran up the stairs. He held the door for his dad to come in through, then ran ahead and held the bedroom door open.

"My bed, Sam."

Sam hurried over and pulled the covers down, then got out of the way. John put Dean down on the mattress and took off his shoes before gently tucking him in. He held up his finger for silence, then guided Sam out, turning off the lights and shutting the door behind them.

"Why doesn't he have a real cast?" Sam asked as John went to the fridge and pulled out a beer.

"There's too much swelling, so they couldn't put it on," John said, popping the top off the beer and taking a long drink. "The bubble cast is just temporary."

"Did Jake do it to him?" Sam asked anxiously, because they'd sent him home to that. The dark look his father shot him told him the answer clear as day. "Did you hurt him?"

"Not much," John said grimly. "And not where it shows."

Sam wished he could go over there and beat up on Jake for awhile, but he had a feeling both Dean and Dad would nix that idea. "So what now?" he asked. "Are we leaving town?"

"Not without the permanent cast, Sam," his dad said reprovingly, and Sam flushed. "No, we're going to meet the social worker's requirements on the first, and then we'll be leaving town."

"You care about that?" Sam asked.

"No, but Dean does." His father looked at the clock. "It's time for bed, Sam."

"But where are you going to sleep?" he asked, looking towards the bedroom where Dean was on his dad's bed.

"In your bed, tiger," he said. "Come on, I'm tired, too. It's been a long day."

* * *

Dean woke up to a gentle but insistent hand on his shoulder. "Hey, Dean? You there, son?"

He blinked up at John, not sure where he was or how he'd gotten there. "Yes, sir?" he mumbled.

"It's time for your pill. I'm going to help you sit up, now, okay?"

Dean nodded and prepared for the pain he expected, but John's grip was gentle and sure. He took the pill John offered him and put it in his mouth, then took the cup of water.

"Drink it all down," John said softly. Dean did as he was bid, and then John carefully lowered him back to the bed. "Go back to sleep, kid," John said, and Dean drifted off to the bizarre sense that someone was stroking his hair.

An alarm buzzed and Dean reached out automatically with his right arm to turn it off, but bit back a yelp of pain when his broken arm hit the wall beside the bed. That was when he realized that it was the wrong alarm and the wrong room. He was at Sammy's. He looked over at the other bed and saw Sammy struggling out from under the covers. "What's going on?" Dean tried to ask, but he didn't think he got all the consonants out. He felt loopy and out of it.

"Dad went and got you from Jake's place," Sammy said. "And you're not going back."

"Where is John?" Dean asked, his words coming clearer as he woke up more. He dimly remembered John helping him take a pill in the middle of the night.

"Taking a shower," Sammy said. Dean tried to sit up. "He said you're to stay where you are till he comes. He doesn't want you to hurt yourself." Dean made a face and managed to get himself into a sitting position, leaning against the wall at the head of the bed. "I told him you wouldn't listen," Sammy said.

"Aren't you getting ready for school?" Dean asked.

"I hope not," Sammy replied. "I was kind of hoping I could go to the hospital with you and see the cast go on."

Dean looked down at his arm. "Yeah, that sounds exciting. Like watching paint dry."

"I've just never seen it before, and it might come in useful someday."

"Broken bones will always be taken to the hospital, Sammy," John said, coming into the room, and Dean wondered what that was supposed to mean. "Get ready for school. You don't want to be late for your last day, do you?"

Sammy sighed and, grabbing some clothes, headed out of the room, leaving Dean alone with John. Dean swallowed uncomfortably. He'd been so out of it last night between pain and drugs and amazement that he didn't quite know what he'd said or what had happened. "What did you do to Jake?" he asked.

"Put the fear of me into him," John said with a shrug. "Do you have an appointment at the hospital, or are you supposed to just go by?"

Dean shook his head. "I think I'm just supposed to show up, but I don't really remember. Jake might know."

"The hospital will know," John said. "You stay there. Those are some pretty heavy pain meds they've got you on, and I don't want you to fall down and do more damage to that arm."

Dean nodded, sighing. Aside from the call of nature, which was a bitch and a half to manage one-handed, he didn't have any real reason to get up, and, from the sound of the water hitting the wall, Sammy was using the bathroom at the moment. He was still fully dressed, and he could see his shoes, one fallen slightly on top of the other, on the floor at the end of the bed. For the first time in ages, he felt safe and cared for, and he didn't know why. It was weird. He'd never met John before Thursday night, but even though he was still mad at John for leaving Sammy alone for nearly a week, he trusted him.

John came back and sat down on Sammy's bed. "You're just supposed to show up, but they tell me it would best if you came after ten, so if you want to sleep some more, you might as well."

Dean gazed at him thoughtfully. "Why are you doing this?" he asked, and he suddenly remembered asking the question before. "And don't give me the crap about not liking bullies."

"Well, I don't like bullies, as a matter of fact," John said with a strange little grin.

"Yeah, well, that's not all that's going on here," Dean said.

John chuckled. "You've got me there, it's not."

"Then what else?" Dean demanded. "I think I'm entitled to know. And why are you so willing to take me on after knowing me for less than a day?"

John shrugged. "Sam's a good judge of people, and so am I. You've got a good head on your shoulders – when you're not doped to the gills – and you've got useful skills. Sam says you're willing to work hard to get the job done." His expression grew more serious. "Now, Dean, how did you really break that arm?"

Dean shrugged and bit his lip when his arm objected to the movement. "Jake shoved me, that's all. I fell, and my arm hit the lawn mower at a bad angle."

"He shoved you down some stairs?"

"Just the couple of steps down to the garage," Dean said, not sure why John was asking so many questions. Was he going to beat up on Jake some more if he didn't like the answers? Jake wouldn't be shy about calling the cops, so he hoped John wouldn't go too far.

"Have you ever had broken bones before from something he did?" John asked neutrally.

"No, never," Dean said. "Bruises, and a couple of times I got scraped up when I fell." That might be understating things a bit, but no bones had been broken by anything Jake ever did. "Why do you want to know? You going after Jake again?"

"No. I just wanted to find out if you knew you could expect something like this when you told me it was nothing you couldn't handle."

Dean blinked at him. "No, sir," he said honestly. "He was always careful to keep to stuff that no one would notice. He smacks Louise around, too, and she never broke anything that I know about." John frowned but nodded, seeming satisfied. Dean wondered what John would have done if he'd said yes. He decided he didn't want to know.

Sammy came to the door. "I'm leaving now, but I'm off at one today. Should I come here or will you be at the hospital?"

"We should be back here by then. Turn your books in. We'll be leaving town on the second."

Sammy nodded. "See ya, Dean," he said, and a minute later, Dean heard the front door open and close.

"So, do you want a shower?" John asked.

Dean considered just how difficult a prospect that was and shook his head. "I need to use the bathroom, though."

"Can you manage, or do you need help?"

Flushing, Dean said, "I can get it." John helped him to his feet, being careful not to let him jar his arm. "What did you do before you took up hunting?" he asked, halfway expecting to hear that he'd been a nurse or something. He was sure good at looking after people.

"Owned a half-share in a garage, actually," John said. "I'm a mechanic, by trade."

That made sense. It was hard to keep old cars running without good maintenance, and being on the road all the time meant they'd have to do the upkeep themselves. Otherwise they'd probably have wound up in some foreign job that would run forever on oil changes and the occasional tune up.

"Call me if you need any help," John said, and he left Dean inside the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Taking care of business was challenging, but not impossible. He had a hell of a time getting his jeans buttoned, though.

John was in his chair when Dean came out of the bathroom. He started to get up, but Dean shook his head and made his way slowly over to the sofa where he lowered himself carefully down. "So, after ten, huh? And what is it now, half past seven?"

"You've got another pill due at eight. After that, you'll probably fall asleep again."

"I hate feeling so woozy."

"You'd hate the pain more."

Dean wasn't so sure about that, but he didn't reply. He leaned his head back against the wall above the sofa and closed his eyes. For awhile, he sort of drifted, then John cleared his throat and Dean opened his eyes to see the older man right in front of him. He was holding a glass of water in one hand, and the pills in his other.

Sighing, Dean took the pills and the water. "You do know you're a mother hen, don't you?"

* * *

John laughed. "That's a first," he said, shaking his head. "You might want to lie down. That stuff will knock you out." Dean shifted sideways on the sofa, clearly intending to lie down right where he was, but John restrained him. "Not there," he said. Putting a hand under Dean's left elbow, he maneuvered the boy to his feet and guided him back into the bedroom. "Come on, back to bed with you, son."

"I don't want to put you out of your bed," Dean protested groggily. "I can sleep on the sofa."

"Don't worry about it," John said, giving him a gentle push to sit down on the bed. It didn't take much effort to get him lying down, and once his head hit the pillow, he was out like a light. John stood there for a moment, gazing at him. Then John noticed something lumpy under his shirt, and he saw that there was a cord around his neck. His stomach gave a kind of flutter and he reached down gingerly to pull the cord free of the shirt. Out popped a little head of burnished bronze. John stared at it, mesmerized, and sank onto Sam's bed. If he'd needed further proof, he had it. Sam's last Christmas present to his brother. Dean had kept it, somehow, through whatever he'd been through. He didn't wear it openly as he once had, but he wore it. John squeezed his eyes shut and fought to control himself. If Dean woke up and saw him crying, he'd think he was nuts.

He stood up and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. Settling in his chair, he pushed emotions aside and tried to think. He had to take the boy to Garrettville, that much was certain. He'd promised, and the information they might gain access to could provide any number of answers about what had happened all those years ago in Montana. After Garrettville, the path wasn't so clear. If there were any obvious leads in the file, they'd have to follow them, but if not, he thought he'd take the kid to Bobby. Obnoxious and know-it-all as Bobby was, he'd have the distance to ask the right questions. John needed that. He needed someone to talk to who could think clearly and advise him on what to do next, because he wasn't sure how long he could cope with a Dean who didn't know him.


	7. Chapter 7

At ten, he went into the bedroom and gave Dean a light shake. The boy came awake instantly, then squinted up at him. "What?"

"Time to go to the hospital," John said.

Dean blinked at him blearily. "Okay." Then he closed his eyes and fell back asleep. John opened his mouth to speak again, but then he stopped. Dean probably needed the rest. He stood watching for a long moment. Once, long ago, in what felt like another life, he'd watched this very boy sleep in his mother's arms and suckle at her breast. He'd counted on this boy to carry his baby brother out of a burning building.

This boy needed a cast on his arm, and the day wasn't getting any younger. "Dean," he called.

Dean roused and blinked at him, then started pulling himself up. John helped him sit up, then grabbed his shoes. "I can do that," Dean said when John started putting them on for him.

"I got it," John said. "It's probably the last nice thing I'll ever do for you, though, so enjoy it while it lasts."

"Right," Dean muttered. "Cuz you're a mean old man."

"That I am," John replied. "Let's go."

The hospital trip went about like most hospital trips go. Lots of waiting, lots of cold tables, lots of doctors who were far too young to really know what they were doing. He sat with Dean, waiting, and one of the nurses asked where Jake was.

"At work," John said. "I offered to bring Dean in since I'm off today."

"Oh, that was nice of you," she said. Evidently word of the change in Dean's residence had not been broadcast to the whole town. John thought that was probably good, because who knew what the social worker might hear about and come calling for.

He went with Dean into the treatment room since nobody seemed to object, though Dean gave him an odd look. By largely keeping quiet and staying in the background, he managed to be present throughout the casting of the arm and the doctor's instructions with regard to what Dean was and wasn't supposed to do. There was a minor debate about the color of the cast, the options being blue, black, red, green, pink and white. Dean was all in favor of black until John leaned over and said, "But how will girls write their numbers on it then?"

Dean paused for a split second, then said, "White."

When the doctors were done, Dean had a cast that ran from his elbow down to his wrist and which encompassed the back of his hand. His thumb stuck out through a hole, but other than that, it largely left the palm free.

"I'll be leaving town in two weeks," Dean said as they finished up. "So I'll need whatever paperwork I should provide the next doctor who looks at this."

"I'll send a message to medical records and have them put something together for you," the doctor said. "You should be able to pick it up sometime in the afternoon on Monday."

"Thanks," Dean said.

"I'm sorry that we'll be losing you, Dean," the doctor said. "If I don't see you again before then, take care."

"Thanks, sir. You too," Dean said. He offered his left hand for a shake, and the doctor left the room. Dean looked up at John. "Can we go?"

"What about payment?" John asked.

"I'm a ward of the state, they pick up the tab," Dean said. "At least until the first. After that, I'm probably on my own."

John led the way to the hospital pharmacy, where they filled a prescription for a much less intense pain killer. As they left the building, he noticed Dean heaving what looked like a sigh of relief, and tension that John hadn't even noticed left his shoulders.

"What's up?" John asked.

Dean glanced up at him. "I'm just glad that's over. I hate hospitals."

"Oh yeah?"

Dean nodded, but he didn't elaborate. John stewed, trying to figure out how to get him to open up a little more. They got into the car and headed back to the apartment, but John couldn't think of a way to pry information loose that wouldn't be monumentally obvious. Dean seemed to be lost in thought, too, and John wondered what he was thinking about.

When John pulled up outside the apartment, Dean looked over at him and seemed to be about to say something. John took the key out of the ignition and made a show out of checking the backseat to give him a little space.

Finally, the kid cleared his throat. "Sir, I should probably tell you something, since you're going to be training me and all that."

Formality. Dean was anxious that whatever he was about to tell John would be a problem. "What is it?" John asked.

Dean took a deep breath and looked away towards the windshield. "I don't react well to knives," he said. "I mean, not kitchen knives, though I don't really like those, but . . . have you seen _Halloween_?"

John nodded. "Yes, I saw it when it came out."

"The first and last time I saw it, I had a meltdown," Dean said, giving him a worried look. "Like nearly earned myself a bed in the psych ward meltdown. I don't know if that's a problem, but I imagine it could get in the way."

John nodded slowly. "Yeah, it could, but I'm thinking we can work through it." They could. They'd have to.

Dean gave him a sidelong look. "I just don't really want to freak out in front of the kid," he said. "I guess I scared the kids in the family I was placed in so much that they didn't want me back."

John grimaced, having trouble controlling his anger over the whole situation. "Sam's made of sterner stuff than the average kid," he said.

Dean snorted. "Given the way he handled that ghost thing, yeah, I'd say so, but still." He shrugged. "It's embarrassing."

"How's this? I'll start you out slow, and we can work you up to things."

"If by 'starting out slow,' you mean showing me a knife for a minute, then that could work," Dean said, and John gave him a startled look. "Okay, maybe that's an exaggeration," Dean said hastily, but John could tell it wasn't. "I just . . . it's really bad."

"Do you know what the source is?" John asked.

* * *

Dean flashed to the feeling of the knife slicing through his skin, and clenched his teeth. He forced his mind away from the memory and said, "So, Sammy's going to be back in, what, an hour?"

John didn't miss a beat. He just glanced at his watch and said, "More like a half hour."

"How about if I go grab us some lunch? The diner's got a mean bacon cheeseburger."

"Sounds good," John said, and Dean opened the car door and got out. "Dean?" John called before Dean could shut the door again. Dean stuck his head into the car. "We are going to have to talk about that at some point."

Dean sort of shrugged and shut the door, walking away.

* * *

John watched him go, not entirely certain if he would be coming back. He'd have to, John would see to it, but flashbacks could make a grown man run and hide, much less a boy of seventeen. John shook his head, his fists clenched. A single question had been enough to trigger the flashback, which spoke to a deeply seated trauma, one that might prove hard to eradicate.

It had made John's stomach twist to see that look, that hurting, terrified look on his son's face. Something dreadful had happened, something that involved knives, and John had no idea what it was. He knew how he could find out, though.

He got out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him. Before he knew what he'd done, he was on the phone with 411 getting the number for the Garrettville PD. Staring at the number he'd written in bold ink on a paper towel, he thought twice about calling it. He hung up the phone and stared at it, aware of an uncharacteristic diffidence. Should he trust Dean to tell him, or should he find out on his own? If he got stuck on hold or if getting the information took any time at all, either Dean or Sam would get back before he was off, and that wouldn't be good. Dean wouldn't appreciate the lack of trust, and Sam . . . Sam didn't need to know about this just yet.

Not knowing . . . John swallowed to contain the emotional surge that came as he considered all the possible reasons Dean could have a fear of knives. It made him want to chase the boy down, strip him bare and check out every inch of his skin. But even if he already knew he was John's son, he'd probably find that a little weird. John didn't dare do anything that might scare him off, and that included looking into his history without talking to him first.

He picked up the paper towel, crumpled it, and stuffed it in his pocket. He needed to think long term. That was his strong suit most of the time, but it was damned hard to do when his son sat in the front seat of the car next to him having a flashback to some terrible memory that he knew nothing about.

John's gut was beginning to hurt from all the acid churning around in there, and if he was lucky, he'd only have an ulcer before this was resolved.


	8. Chapter 8

Sam carried his empty backpack on his back, though he felt kind of foolish with it flapping back there. It was just the best place to carry the stupid thing. His teachers had all been disappointed to see him go, or variations on that theme. Sam was used to that. Teachers always said stuff like that to him when he went to turn his books in.

As he passed Main Street, he paused and glanced towards the diner, contemplating asking Dad if they could go there for lunch. He didn't have anything good in the apartment, and he was really hungry. Then he saw Dean coming down the street from that direction, a plastic bag in one hand, a white cast on the other. Sam ran over to him, dodging the one or two cars that were passing at the time.

"Hey, Dean!" he called as Dean turned the corner onto first.

Dean jumped like he was scared, and he almost dropped the bag. His eyes scanned the area, and when he saw Sam running up, he relaxed. "Don't do that, Sammy!" he exclaimed.

"What'd I do?" Sam asked. "I just yelled your name."

Dean stared at him for a second, then shrugged. "I got lunch for you, me and your old man. I hope he doesn't have your objection to onions."

"Nope." Sam looked curiously at Dean's arm. "The cast's not very big," he observed.

"What, you'd want it to be bigger?" Dean asked, holding it out from his body and examining it.

Sam shrugged. "I wasn't sure where your arm was hurt, is all. I half-expected you to come back with your whole arm in a cast, the way Dad was going on about it. Does it hurt?"

"Not now," Dean said. "Before, yeah, it hurt some."

"You want me to carry the food?"

"Do I look like I'm having trouble?" Dean demanded, and Sam grimaced.

"Jeez, I was just trying to help," he muttered, giving Dean a sidelong look.

Dean reached up with his right arm and tousled Sam's hair. It was weird, because he could feel the cast catching in the hair a little. "I know, Sammy, I'm just in a crappy mood."

"Is it just your arm, or is something else wrong?"

Dean shrugged, and Sam glanced up at his face. The expression there wasn't particularly inviting, so Sam decided not to ask again. They walked another block in silence, and Sam found that weird, too, because it wasn't an uncomfortable silence. It was more like a mutual agreement not to talk. He'd never had that with anyone he wasn't related to, except Bobby. Other guys his age wanted to chatter all the time, and guys Dean's age wouldn't have anything to do with a runt like him. Grown ups always seemed to feel obligated to either entertain or educate you in some way. It was kind of nice just to be with someone without any of those stupid expectations.

"Anyone say anything at school?" Dean asked eventually.

"Not really," Sam said. "At least not to me, but we haven't been friends all that long, and not really at school, and I don't think anybody knows you're staying with us yet."

"Everyone in town will know by nightfall," Dean predicted. "And whether someone will call Ms. Nosy Parker is anyone's guess."

"Ms. Nosy Parker?" Sam asked curiously.

"My social worker." Dean glanced down at him. "I think her real name is Natalie, but Nosy suits her so much better. I mean, she wants to know how many hours I sleep at night. Come on! Who really cares?"

They'd reached the apartments, and Sam was surprised to see his dad coming out of the first one instead of number three, grinning broadly. "Hey, boys, I got Lynch to let us move to an apartment with two bedrooms, since he had one vacant." Sam snorted. Half the apartments were vacant. They were dirty and run down, and no one wanted to live there.

"That's not necessary," Dean said. "I could sleep on the couch."

"We're already moved, Dean, so don't worry about it."

"But that's got to cost more," Dean protested.

Dad shook his head. "Nope, I'd already paid for the month of December, and, like he said, it's not going to rent anyway. We'll have to pay for a couple of days in January since we're not leaving till the second at least, but that's no big deal."

They were having this conversation on the walkway outside the apartments while the food got cold. Sam looked back and forth between his dad and Dean. They seemed to be having a staring contest. "I'm starving," he announced, hoping it would get either one or the other of them moving.

"Yeah, let's eat lunch," Dad said, putting a hand out for the food. After a second, Dean handed him the bag, and they all went in. Dad put the bag down on the kitchen counter and Sam went to the fridge. He'd had a twelve-pack of Coke, a six-pack of beer, and the remains of a half gallon of milk in the fridge in the other apartment, and Dad hadn't forgotten them.

"Dean? You want Coke or milk?"

"You gotta ask?" Dean replied with a cocky grin.

Sam pulled out two Cokes and one of Dad's beers and took them over to the table. Dad was parceling out the food. "No onions, that will be Sammy."

"Sam, Dad," Sam corrected as he sat down in front of the styrofoam carton with his food in it.

"How come he gets to call you Sammy, and I don't?" Dad asked with a faint grin. Sam shrugged. He didn't know what the answer was, and he wasn't sure he wanted to think about it too close right now.

"It's my winning personality," Dean said. "He just can't resist it."

"Oh, is that it?" John replied. "I see." He nodded to Dean. "Sit down, son, the food's getting cold. Is the extra onions for you?"

"Oh yeah," Dean said enthusiastically, and he finally sat down.

Sam buried himself in his burger, forgetting everything but lunch.

* * *

Dean still wasn't quite sure where he fit with these two. Sammy seemed to have wholeheartedly adopted him as surrogate older brother, and if that went too far it might have to be stopped. Dean wasn't replacing anyone. He was himself, not a pale copy of the Dean they'd lost. He didn't mind being older brother, so long as Sammy didn't try to turn him into something he wasn't. John . . . John was harder.

Dean kept catching the man looking at him in the oddest way. If John was looking for a replacement for the son he'd lost, Dean would have to have a talk with him, too. No way in hell he was going to try and live up to some man's image of his dead son. That was just asking for trouble. Most of the time, though, John just treated him like a semi-adult that he didn't know very well. Maybe comparisons were inevitable. The fact that he and the missing kid shared a name couldn't help matters any.

He wondered when John was going to ask him again about the knife thing. The thought made his gut twist, but he forged on with his lunch, not wanting either of them to notice anything wrong. His appetite wasn't dimmed by much, anyway, not these days. He figured he must be growing again, because whenever he got this hungry all the time, it usually heralded another vertical climb.

"So," John said, and Dean looked up, hoping he didn't look like a deer in headlights. "I figure that if there aren't any obvious leads from the file in Garrettville, we'll go up north, to South Dakota."

"South Dakota?" Dean asked, a little startled. "What's in South Dakota?"

"Uncle Bobby," Sammy said. He turned to his father and gave him a narrow-eyed look. "I thought you said we weren't going back there till hell froze over." Given how glowingly Sam had spoken of his time at Bobby's, Dean found this surprising.

"How long has that ever lasted?" John asked, his tone gruff with embarrassment.

"Six months, the last time," Sammy said. "This time it's only been two."

"I want to get Dean started out right, and one thing he'll definitely need to know is who he can trust."

"And I can trust Bobby?" Dean asked uncertainly.

"Yeah," John said, shrugging. "Bobby and me, we just don't always see eye to eye, and I can have something of a temper sometimes."

"And Bobby?" Dean asked.

Sammy laughed. "Uncle Bobby only ever gets mad at Dad," he said confidingly.

"He got mad at Ezra once," John protested.

"That doesn't count, Dad, everyone was mad at Ezra that time." Dean wasn't sure he wanted to know why everyone was mad at Ezra. The conversation was losing him quickly. "Well, if he needs to get to know who he can trust, then we ought to stop by Pastor Jim's and go see Ellen, too."

"Pastor Jim, sure, if he's there, but you know how I feel about visiting Ellen, Sammy. If Bobby feels like driving down to Nebraska to see her while we're there, then maybe, but I'm not going."

"Who's Ellen?" Dean asked.

"An old friend," John said shortly. "Bobby used to leave Sam with her sometimes if he had to go away."

"She has a daughter, Jo, who is totally cool," Sam said enthusiastically. "She can fight like a boy, and she's better at pool than I am. Only I haven't seen her in a couple of years, so I might be better now, and who knows, she might have gone all girly. She's fourteen."

"So, your age," Dean said, nodding.

"Actually, Jo's not quite a year older than Sam," John said, glancing aside at Dean. "Sam won't be fourteen till May."

"What?" Dean stared at Sammy. "You mean I've been hanging out with a thirteen-year-old all this time?" He clapped his left hand to his forehead. "My reputation will be ruined!"

"Shut up," Sammy growled. "I'm a really cool thirteen-year-old. I'm a hunter."

"Apprentice hunter," Dean corrected. Then he grinned and leaned closer to Sammy. "Short, apprentice hunter."

* * *

John sat back, watching his sons banter. Sam tried to glower at Dean, but he ended up laughing. "At least I'm an apprentice. I'm not even sure what to call you."

"Apprentice to the apprentice?" Dean suggested, his eyes twinkling.

Evidently they already had in-jokes, because John had no idea what they were talking about. They kept going, nonsense mostly, and John just sat back, enjoying the family feeling of the moment. Once he might have silenced the amiable bickering he was taking such pleasure in, but he hadn't entirely realized how much he missed hearing his boys be boys. Sam hadn't been a boy in quite awhile, and the few times he tried to be one, John usually had to stop him.

When it became clear that everyone was done eating, John stood up. "Okay, I'll get the dishes for this meal," he said, collecting the styrofoam trays and soda cans. "Why don't you two get stuff together for the laundromat? I know Dean has some dirty clothes, and Lord knows I'm almost out of clean stuff."

"Sure," Sam said, and Dean shrugged his agreement.

"Where's my stuff?" he asked.

John inclined his head in the direction of the bedroom with two beds. "I didn't unpack it."

Dean disappeared into that bedroom and came out a short while later with one of the duffels partly full of clothing. Sam came out dragging the military issue duffel they habitually used as their laundry hamper. "Are you coming, Dad?" he asked. "It's too far to walk with the bags."

John bent and hefted the gigantic duffel. "Of course. Come on, boys." At the laundromat, he sat on the side and let the boys do the running, though Dean ran out of steam fairly quickly. John watched, amused, as Sam gave him a shove towards the bench where John was sitting and then kept working.

Dean walked over and sat down, looking vaguely perturbed. "I've been ordered to rest."

"Well, as apprentice to the apprentice, you have to follow orders, I guess," John said.

Dean snorted. "Dude, don't take that too seriously."

The noise of the place and Sam's preoccupation with making sure everything washed right and no one stole their stuff made a good combination for a private chat with Dean. John cleared his throat and leaned closer. "So, how often do you have flashbacks?"

Dean looked over at him, his eyes widening. "Um . . ." He bit his lip and turned away. "Not very. Just . . ." He shook his head. "That was the first time in weeks."

John nodded slowly. "Is that as bad as they get?"

"Mostly."

"Anything besides knives set them off?"

Dean went really quiet, and John thought he wasn't going to get an answer, but finally, the boy said, "Fire."

John felt his stomach flip over. Dean's voice was quiet and controlled, but the emotion was clear behind it. Nausea swept over him, leaving him feeling shaky and cold. Images followed, Mary on the ceiling, fire shooting out from her body to engulf Sam's nursery, him handing baby Sammy to tiny Dean to carry outside.

"You okay?" Dean asked.

John managed to nod. "I'll . . . be back in a moment," he said, and he left the laundromat. He walked a few yards away, around the corner. If he was going to have a hysterical fit, he wasn't doing it in front of the boys. Dean had witnessed part of Mary's death, just how much John had never been able to ascertain, but he'd never exhibited any fear of fire afterwards, and he'd had opportunities. What that could mean, the horrors it implied, made John want to scream and throw things and punch the wall. He did none of those, he simply stood with tears streaming down his face and leaned back against the cinder block wall behind him.


	9. Chapter 9

Dean felt really awkward. He didn't understand what had just happened. One minute, John was asking him extremely uncomfortable questions, the next he was looking halfway to sick, and then he got up and left the laundromat. He didn't quite know what to think. What did fire mean to John?

Sammy walked over. "Where'd my dad go?"

"Not sure," Dean said. "He said he'd be back in a minute."

"Oh." He tilted his head. "He never leaves me alone in a laundromat. He says there are creeps who wait for that kind of thing."

"Glad to hear it," Dean said. He knew the kinds of pervs who hung around in laundromats waiting for solo kids. "But he hasn't left you alone this time either."

"That's true," Sam said, but he still looked uneasy. "He looked weird."

Dean didn't know what to say. He had looked weird, but would he want Sam to come out and find him? Dean somehow doubted it. "I'm sure he's fine. He just needed a minute, I guess."

"Oh." Sam nodded, as if that was a familiar event. "I bet he was thinking about Mom." He settled on the bench next to Dean. "Sometimes it just comes over him like that, and he goes off by himself for a bit."

"How did your Mom die?" Dean asked.

"Do you really want to know?" Sam was looking at him anxiously. "It's kind of freaky and gross."

Dean shrugged. "I can handle freaky and gross," he said. He had enough of that in his past to make it not a big issue.

"Well, Dad heard her calling from my nursery, but when he came up, he couldn't see her anywhere. Then he saw blood dripping into my crib, and he looked up." Sam paused for a moment, taking a deep breath. "This is where it gets freaky," he said. "Mom was on the ceiling, all flat and in a weird position, and her stomach was cut open. Then, while he was watching, she caught fire, and then the whole nursery caught fire." Sam shrugged. "I was a baby, so I don't remember anything."

Dean swallowed. Okay, freaky and gross were good words. And no wonder John had reacted so strongly to a mention of fire. He supposed people in this line of work might have more sensitivities than most, what with all the crazy crap they dealt with.

The door opened and John came back in. "Hey, Sam, someone looks like they're coveting that dryer you staked out." Sam looked up, then charged across to defend his territory. John sat back down beside Dean and said, "I'm sorry about that. I have my own issues with fire." Dean shrugged. "So –"

Dean interrupted him, discomfort overriding his normal respect for his elders. "If you have to know what happened to me, I've got something I can show you back at the room. I really, really can't talk about it."

"Okay," John said. They were both quiet for a moment, then John cleared his throat and started talking about cars. That Dean could go with.

* * *

John put his keys on the counter and carried the military duffel over to the wall between the two bedroom doors. Sam went straight into the bathroom, and Dean headed into the bedroom. A few minutes later, he emerged carrying a thick folder that looked like it came straight from some doctor's files. "There are pictures in there. I don't want Sammy seeing them," Dean said. "I don't really want you seeing them, but . . ." He shuddered. "Sammy really doesn't need to see them."

John nodded and without a word he walked over, lifted the cushion of his chair and placed the file underneath. Then he sat down. "I guess I'll look later then," he said.

"Sammy wants to go see a movie," Dean said. "What he wants to see is _Scream_ , but I can't go anywhere near that movie. I can barely watch the commercials. It's rated R, though, so I'm probably safe."

"But you're going to take him to a movie?"

"Sure," Dean said. "Otherwise there's no way you're going to get to look at that thing without an audience, and anyway I sort of halfway promised I would."

When Sam came out of the bathroom, Dean made his suggestion, and John gave his permission for him to go immediately without putting the clean clothes away. Sam bounced out of the apartment, and Dean left a little more slowly, giving John an anxious look before he went.

John gave it ten minutes, figuring that if they were gone that long, they wouldn't be coming back because of some forgotten item. He got up, got himself a beer, picked up a few pieces of trash that had accumulated since Sam's last cleaning spree, and finally took the file from its hiding place and sat down.

On the side tab, it said, "Hunter, Dean." That still made him almost laugh. What a last name for his son to wind up with. The file sat in his lap with a weight far greater than its physical presence could explain. Taking a deep breath, John opened the file. The first page was a typewritten form. The top section was taken up with biographical details on Dean Hunter, sketchy though they were. The birth date was given as January 1, 1979, his hair and eye colors were noted, birthplace was left blank. Parents' names, left blank. Number of siblings had a question mark next to it. Beneath this was a section left open for notes. John took a deep breath and read them.

> _Dean's surname and birthdate were created by the department for convenience._  
>  _When asked his surname, he could not answer, and all he knew with regard to_  
>  _his birthday was January, and his age at the time of entry into our system, which_  
>  _was 12._
> 
> _Dean is of above average intelligence, but appears to have no interest in school._  
>  _He spent six months in the hospital following his appearance in Garrettville, so_  
>  _based on testing and age, we have placed him a grade lower than his age would_  
>  _suggest._

That answered that question. John clenched his teeth at the thought of injuries that required a six month stay in the hospital, although there was always the possibility that there were other reasons for that stay.

>   _He shows signs of PTSD from the torture he suffered at the hands of his unknown_  
>  _assailant. The primary manifestations are flashbacks and night terrors. As of_  
>  _3/17/94, both of these are growing less frequent and the incidents that do occur_  
>  _are of decreased duration and intensity. Antecedents include any discussion of his_  
>  _trauma or the presence of non-kitchen knives. Since he had an extended flashback,_  
>  _apparently resulting from watching the movie Halloween, his foster parents are_  
>  _encouraged not to permit him to view horror films or action movies that include knife_  
>  _fighting. He prefers not to be alone, and demonstrates caretaking behavior towards_  
>  _young children. Nevertheless, it is not recommended that he be placed in homes with_  
>  _young children because of his flashbacks._

This continued for awhile, descending into psychiatric terms that John didn't know and didn't have a dictionary for at the moment. He didn't really care. The word _torture_ had started nausea in his stomach. The next few pages were school evaluations, intelligence testing and similar junk. He scanned it, but it contained no surprises. The next section of the file also started with a form. This was an official notification that the case regarding the sudden appearance of Dean Hunter was being declared cold unless new information turned up. The bastards in law enforcement just gave up on trying to find Dean's real family. It was dated 9/20/93. Behind that were several reports describing a uniform lack of progress. The attack site hadn't been located, the witnesses could not say where the child had come from, and the child was uncommunicative.

The last page of this section was a medical form dated 5/19/91, and the first line stuck in John's mind. "Patient presented at ER at 0300 on 5/18/91 with multiple lacerations to left side, still bleeding sluggishly." There was a lot after that about treatment and drugs, and stitches, by God, but the crux of it was that his son had been cut repeatedly. He scanned the parts discussing the antibiotics and cleansing agents used and found the next terrifying passage.

> _It is the opinion of the treating physician and the county medical examiner that the_  
>  _wounds were deliberately inflicted with an extremely sharp, short-bladed knife or_  
>  _scalpel. The pattern created by the slashes is precise and well defined, demonstrating_  
>  _excellent control, not likely to be achieved with a longer blade. Other wounds are_  
>  _present, partially healed, also in precise patterns, in four groupings. The groups appear_  
>  _to be from different times, the oldest dating to perhaps three weeks ago, and the most_  
>  _recent was clearly done within the last twelve hours. There are second degree burns_  
>  _above the sternum and in the small of the back. They appear to be brands, but the_  
>  _shapes are difficult to discern at present due to swelling and blistering. They appear to_  
>  _be approximately 36 hours old._

John gulped on bile at the images this called up in his mind. Then he turned to the next section and stared in shocked horror. He'd forgotten that Dean had said he didn't want Sammy seeing the pictures in the file, so flipping the page to see evidence photos of a twelve-year-old Dean gave him a start. Dean's eyes were closed, and he appeared to be limp. John guessed he was sedated. If he hadn't known that, he might have thought he was dead, and that idea twisted in his stomach till he reminded himself that Dean was alive and taking Sam to the movies.

The first photo was dated 5/21/91, and it showed Dean lying on his back on an examination table. He was covered from the hips down. His left arm had been placed above his head, and the photo was focused on the left side of his torso. A design had been carved into his skin, a glyph of some kind. Black rows of stitches and dark scabs highlighted it clearly. John dropped the file on the floor and bolted for the bathroom, his stomach rebelling at the sight.

A few moments later, shaken and clammy, he returned to the living room, picked up the file and retreated to the dining table. He took a deep breath and looked again at the photograph, trying to quell his physical and emotional reactions, but it was mostly a lost cause. The very idea that someone would do something like that to a child – any child – made him sick. That they'd done it to his child made him _violently_ sick. Knowing that it was probably a demon didn't make it any better, just creepier.

He stood up again, turning his back on the photo, swallowing hard to keep the rest of his stomach contents down. He went to get a pad of paper and returned to the file. With tears streaming down his cheeks and making everything blurry, he attempted to make a sketch of the glyph. That, at least, he could get to Bobby in advance. Maybe he'd be able to figure out what the hell it meant. It took several attempts to get the sketch made, and when it was done, he took a deep breath and swallowed again before turning the page.

By the time he was done, he'd made four drawings of indeterminate quality, and he'd lost the rest of his lunch. There were seven photos in all, four glyphs carved into the skin, and two burns that were clearly brands that couldn't be identified from the photos. John closed the file and tucked the drawings into his journal where Dean wouldn't see them. If Sammy ran across them, he'd just assume they were from something John was working on, and he probably wouldn't ask.

He put the file back under the seat of his chair and sat down again, turning on the TV for mindless noise while he strove to regain command of himself. Dean would not appreciate it if he was freaking out when they got back, and he wouldn't understand this deep emotional reaction on the part of a comparative stranger. John couldn't let either of them know just how much this was affecting him.

When he had his voice under control, he went to the phone and dialed a number that had become indelibly etched in his brain over the three years after Dean went missing. "Yello," Bobby said.

"Bobby, you've got a fax machine, right?"

"John? Is that you?"

"Yeah, it's me," John replied. "Fax machine?"

"I do," Bobby said slowly, "but I seem to recall you telling me –"

"Not now, Bobby," John said sharply, his temper almost escaping his control. He forced himself back to calm. "I've got something important I need to ask you about, but it's a series of glyphs, so I wanted to fax them to you."

"What's wrong, John?" Bobby said, and now he seemed concerned. "You sound kind of –"

"Don't really want to explain over the phone, Bobby," John said. "What's your fax number?"

Bobby gave him the number, and John wrote it down in a shaky scrawl. "John, I'll need context, you know. I can find them without, but it will make it a lot easier if I know –"

"They were carved into a person's flesh," John said. "A living person. Beyond that, I don't know. The victim –" He almost choked over using that word to describe Dean. "– isn't able to give details due to the trauma of the experience."

"Damn," Bobby said, investing his whole emotional reaction into that single syllable. "Send them over. I'll find them."

"Thanks, Bobby. We'll be coming by sometime in the next month, too, just so you know."

"Give me a call when you're on the road to me, like usual," Bobby said. "And I'll call you when I get the fax."

"Thanks. The number here is –"

"Sam already called and gave it to me," Bobby said.

"Right." John shook his head. "Now I've got to go find a fax machine."

* * *

Bobby hung up the phone and stared off into nowhere. John didn't call him unless he had to. Hell, John never called anyone unless he had to. The only reason Bobby had any clue at all what the man got up to was the fact that Sam called on a weekly basis. John occasionally made use of that by having Sam ask him a question, but it was unusual for John to call himself.

He went back to his accounts. He might just have to get a computer system one of these days to keep track of all this crap, but for now he was stuck with ledgers and pencils. And erasers.

After awhile, the fax machine started clattering, and Bobby glanced up. No point in standing there watching the thing print. He kept adding up columns of figures until the machine went quiet for a solid minute. Then he put his pencil down, got up and walked over. There were four sketches, each labeled with a location, left torso, abdomen, right torso, back. The quality of the copy wasn't great, but they gave him the general idea of the shapes.

He dialed the phone, but it wasn't John who answered, it was Sam. "Hello?"

"Hey, Sam, is your dad there?"

"No, he went for a walk. Did he call you?"

"Yeah. Tell him the fax got here, and I can read it."

"Sure. Hey, we've got a new guy hunting with us," Sam said, and the enthusiasm in his voice was loud and clear.

"Your dad took on a partner?" Bobby asked, more than a little startled.

"Not exactly. More like an apprentice to the apprentice," Sam said in an amused voice.

A voice in the background made Bobby's eyebrows go up. "Dude, get over it!"

"That's him, I take it?" Bobby asked.

"Yeah, that's Dean."

"Dean?" Bobby blinked.

"Yeah, he's this guy I met at school. Kind of cool, in a goofy sort of way. He wouldn't even let me sneak into an R-rated movie."

"Good," Bobby said absently. "Give your dad the message."

"No problem."

Sam hung up and Bobby put the phone down, his mind perturbed. John had taken on a kid named Dean? What the hell was he thinking? He and Sam did not need to try and replace Dean, it wouldn't be good for either of them, not to mention the strain it would put on the poor kid, trying to live up to an impossible ideal. By Sam's account, Dean had been the perfect hero of his childhood, and John talked about how smart and quick he'd been, how good he'd been at just about everything.

Bobby remembered a mischievous scamp, always getting into trouble, and starting to chase the opposite sex in a way that had his father pulling his hair out. Nevertheless, this wasn't good for any of the three of them. He hoped that visit John was talking about came sooner rather than later. Maybe then he could straighten things out.

* * *

When John got back to the apartment, he found Sam and Dean playing poker. Sam looked up and said, "Bobby called. He said he got the fax, and it was readable."

"Good," John said. He put his bag down on the sofa and sat down in the chair. He felt Dean's eyes on him, looked up and gave him a nod. Dean's brows drew together, and he returned his attention to the card game. John sat back and turned on the TV. The news came on, the usual round of disasters and idiot politicians. John didn't really watch, he just sat thinking. He'd taken what action he could, now he just had to find a way to deal with the knowledge.

* * *

Dean won the rest of Sammy's matchsticks and rounded them up in a pile. "That's not fair! How did you do that?"

"You've got tells, Sammy-boy," Dean said. "Real obvious ones."

"I do not!" Sammy protested. "I beat adults all the time."

Dean shrugged. "They must not be very good at the game."

Sam glowered at him, then looked at the cards on the table. "Will you tell me what they are?"

"Next time we play," Dean said. "For now, I'm going to put my matchsticks back in their box and go to bed."

"But it's Friday night," Sammy said.

"You don't have to go to bed, but I'm tired, dude." A yawn overtook him on the last word, extending it and making it sound hollow. He got up and headed towards the bathroom.

"Actually, you do have to go to bed, Sam," John said. "It's past ten."

Sam threw a mildly rebellious look at his father's back, but he just nodded.

Dean went into the bathroom and shut the door. He looked at himself in the mirror, and not for the first time, he wondered what other people saw. He knew what the social workers had seen before he'd stolen that file. After looking at those pictures, they saw a broken kid, one who would never be whole again. That was why he'd stolen the file. He'd taken a chance that they wouldn't bother replacing the pictures, and they hadn't. After that, his social workers could read about what had been done to him, but they couldn't see it, and that made all the difference.

He'd expected more of a reaction out of John than he'd gotten. Maybe he was containing it because of Sammy, or maybe he just didn't care. Dean wasn't sure which he'd prefer.

He went into the bedroom and took off his jeans and his overshirt. Rooming with Sammy meant he'd be sleeping in t-shirts for the foreseeable future. There was no way he was stripping off and showing Sammy his decorated hide. He pulled the covers back and climbed in. A few minutes later, Sammy came in, closed the door against the sound of the TV and got in bed.

"Good night, Sammy," he said.

"Night, Dean."

Dean lay on his back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Despite his very real tiredness, sleep wasn't coming. He glanced at the alarm clock between the beds. Five minutes, then ten, then twenty, and he was just lying there, staring at the ceiling. Sammy had long since fallen asleep. Thirty minutes. Dean resolutely closed his eyes and thought of sheep. Forty minutes. He rolled out of bed without making any noise and walked out into the living room, closing the door behind him. He was thinking he should get a glass of milk, but then it occurred to him that he didn't know how they were sharing the expenses.

He walked over and sat down on the sofa. John looked up. "I thought you were tired."

"I am, but I can't seem to sleep."

John nodded, he glanced over at the door to the bedroom. "I guess you put the file away?" he asked once he was sure that the door was closed.

"Yeah," Dean said. "I keep it in that locked box."

"Thank you, by the way."

"For what?" Dean asked, confused.

"Trusting me with that."

Dean shrugged. "So, how do you want to handle expenses?" he asked. "I'm guessing this gig doesn't pay too well."

John snorted. "I get most of our money from hustling pool, poker and, I'm sorry to say, credit card fraud."

"I've got some savings," Dean said. "So I can –"

"Keep it. Credit card fraud isn't hard work. The companies send the cards out to anyone with a pen to fill out the form."

"I'm not going to freeload."

"You'll be looking after Sam when I'm not around. That's not freeloading. Besides, you're an apprentice, right?"

"Well . . ."

"You'll be working and not getting paid." John grinned at him. "Trust me, you'll pull your weight."

Dean opened his mouth to say something, then reconsidered his words. "I was going to say it sounds too good to be true, but the whole monster part kind of isn't."

John sighed, nodding. "No, it's really not," he said. "What did you get up for?"

"A glass of milk," Dean said, shrugging.

"Then get it and go back to bed. You look like you need the sleep."

Dean nodded. He got his milk and went back to bed.

* * *

Sam walked slowly up and down the aisles at the drug store. He needed presents for his dad, Dean, Uncle Bobby and maybe Pastor Jim, and all he had was a twenty, a couple of ones and a pocket full of change. There was a rack of shirts in a corner, and Sam started flipping through them. He found one that said, "World's Greatest Dad." It had a shotgun crossed with a fishing rod underneath the words, and Sam figured one out of two wasn't bad. It was ten dollars, but he'd make it work. He might be able to get some more money between now and when they were going to see Uncle Bobby and Pastor Jim anyway.

He looked at a case full of knives and thought seriously about getting one for Dean. He needed his own weapons, after all. But the only ones worth buying cost too much, so he moved on. Instead, he picked out a little replica of a classic Ford Mustang. He couldn't tell which year it was, but it looked cool, and he'd heard Dean talking about Mustangs with Lou while he was at the garage. It was only eight dollars, so he kept wandering. That was when he noticed the cake mixes and thought of Dean's birthday, now less that two weeks away. He grabbed a yellow cake mix, on sale for ninety-nine cents, and a tub of chocolate frosting, just under three bucks.

He made it by the skin of his teeth and carried his loot back to the apartment to wrap the presents and hide the cake stuff.

* * *

Dean contemplated the little three foot tree. Sam and John hadn't made any obvious preparations for Christmas, and Dean thought that was just wrong. "How much did you say, Glen?"

"Fifteen bucks."

"That's highway robbery," Dean protested.

"Okay, for you I'll knock it down to ten."

"Done." Dean handed over the cash and took the tree. He hoped he didn't run into Sammy or John on the way back to the apartment. He kind of wanted the tree to be a surprise, and he wouldn't exactly be able to hide a tree behind his back if one of them walked by. He'd already picked up some cheapy ornaments, so he had that covered.

Christmas hadn't been a big deal for him at Jake's place. They gave him cash, which was probably just due him from the support payments, and that was about it. She decorated, but the spirit of the season was a nonstarter for Jake and Louise. He'd been in other places where Christmas meant more. The Masons were all about holidays. Angela had made the tree trimming a group event, getting all three of the kids together to do it. That had been fun. He still got Christmas and birthday cards from Angela Mason, he guessed to show that there were no hard feelings about his meltdown, even though they hadn't wanted him back.

He wondered abruptly how he was going to get his mail if he took up this rootless existence that Sammy and John lived. He supposed he'd have to get a post office box somewhere. He'd have to find out if there was a spot they passed through a lot and get one there.

He'd stopped by Lou's to get the cash he'd stored in the shop's safe, and that had been kind of bittersweet. Lou's sister needed more help, and he was closing the shop down till January fifteenth. Instead of catch you later, Dean had had to say goodbye, and he hated goodbyes. They sucked raw eggs. He'd rather slip away in the night.

"Dean!"

He turned to find Mary Beth Hanson running down the road towards him. She came to a stop a few feet from him and stared at his cast for a second, then looked into his face. "Have you really left Jake's place?"

Dean shrugged. "Sort of, but don't spread it around."

"Everybody knows," she said. "I just couldn't believe it. You always said you had to stay there."

"I'm officially still living there," Dean said carefully, aware that his words would be repeated. "I'm just staying with friends for the holidays."

She turned and walked with him. "That Sammy kid, right?" Dean nodded. "What's going on with that, Dean? I haven't seen you in days, except at school."

"Kind of hard to explain."

"So, have you decided what you're going to do after the first?"

Dean glanced over at her. "You've always known what I was going to do when I turned eighteen."

"You're still going to leave town?" she asked, and he nodded. She slowed to a stop, and Dean stopped with her, turning to face her. She leaned as close as the tree would let her. "You can't think of any reason to stay?"

A siren was going on in Dean's head, and he didn't know how to escape this conversation without casualties. He shrugged. "Not really," he said, turning and walking on. If he was lucky, she'd just get mad and stomp away. If he wasn't lucky, she'd kick him first. If he was monumentally unlucky . . .

She caught his arm. "But . . . I thought you might get yourself an apartment in town. Lou would give you more hours once you're eighteen and legally old enough to work them."

Dean turned back towards her. "I'm sorry, but I have to find out who I am, who my parents are."

"You don't have to leave town forever to do that," she pointed out.

He shrugged. "I'm not staying," he said. "I never made any secret of that."

She looked up at him, her dark eyes full of warmth. "Then do you think we could finally do it before you go?"

Dean blinked at her, on the verge of panic. It wasn't that he didn't want to. In fact parts of him were informing him firmly that he did want to. Now. Without delay. But he shook his head. "I'm not ready," he said. "Weird as that sounds coming from a guy."

She tilted her head, gazing up at him with an odd look in her eyes. "Dean Hunter, you are the weirdest boy I have ever met."

"Weirder than you know," he said honestly. No one in town but his doctor, a few of the teachers at school and his foster parents knew anything about his history.

She laughed. "You know everyone at school and half the town thinks we're already doing it. Macy Jackson at the drugstore keeps offering me pregnancy tests. They think you've gotten it on with a couple of the others, too."

Dean shrugged. "It doesn't do my reputation any harm, so if you don't care, I don't."

"Do you mind if I ask you a really personal question?" she said. "I promise I won't tell another soul."

He raised his eyebrows. If Mary Beth made a promise like that, she meant it. What did she want to know? "You can ask, I don't promise to answer."

She glanced around. The street wasn't deserted, but no one was anywhere near them. "Are you gay?" she asked in a quiet voice.

Dean blinked at her. "No!" he blurted. "Not remotely. I just . . ." He grimaced. "I can't really explain, but I'm just . . . not ready." It sounded lame, but he didn't want her seeing the scars all over his torso. He didn't want any of the girls here in town to see them. Mary Beth was looking up at him like she wasn't quite sure she believed him. "Seriously," he said. "There's stuff . . . from before I lived here."

Her eyes widened, and he realized suddenly that she was going to think he'd been molested. It was too late to call the words back and he didn't want to explain them. She went all sympathetic and cooey on him, and it was all he could do to escape without hurting her feelings. He hoped she kept that misinterpretation of his words under the seal of her promise, at least until after he left town.

Neither John nor Sammy was in view when he got back to the apartment, so he looked around to find the best spot for a tree.

* * *

John sat in the diner, drinking coffee and writing in his journal. He'd seen Sam go by with a bulging plastic bag, throwing furtive looks around, and awhile later, he'd seen Dean go by, carrying a very small pine tree with two slats of wood nailed to the bottom to form a stand. He, too, had carried a bag. Evidently his sons were determined to have as traditional a Christmas as they could manage. As he recalled, Dean had always done the best he could to provide Sammy a merry Christmas, even when John himself had been unreachable. Sam's first Christmas after Dean's abduction had taken place at Bobby's, and Bobby called him several times on the road to order him to arrive no later than five a.m. on Christmas morning.

He'd missed that deadline by more than a day, and Sam had been devastated. It was one of the few times John could remember Bobby reaming him a new one. He'd held still for it, because he couldn't get Sam's pathetic expression out of his mind the whole time.

He flipped to the back of his journal where he had a couple of notepads slotted in. He started making a list. He needed to make this Christmas one to remember. For him, it already was. Sam had given him the best present ever, by finding Dean. Still, Dean and Sam were young enough to appreciate Christmas on a different level.

"Patty?" he said, and the waitress bustled over to him. "Are you guys open on Christmas?"

She shook her head. "The Flying J up by the freeway will be, though."

John nodded slowly. "Thanks."

"More coffee?"

"Sure," John said. She topped his cup off, and he continued planning a Christmas blitz.


	10. Chapter 10

Sam came out of the bedroom to find that Dean was putting up a little Christmas tree in the corner of the living room. He stopped dead, startled, and watched Dean carefully twine tinsel around it. He turned to pick something up from the coffee table and nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw Sam. "Why do you keep doing that?" he demanded.

"Doing what?" Sam asked, though he knew now what Dean meant. "Standing here? Watching you?"

"Sneaking up on me," Dean said. He gestured towards the tree. "Well, what do you think? It's kind of reminding me of the _Charlie Brown Christmas Special_."

"It's way better than that tree," Sam said, walking over. "What are you going to put on top?"

"I got a star," Dean said, pulling it out of a paper bag that clearly came from the hardware store. It was gold and glittery, and it wasn't really designed to be a tree topper. "I'm not sure how we'll get it on there, but the real toppers were all too big for the size tree I was going to get."

"Just one minute," Sam said, and he hurried over to the kitchen, digging in the box of garbage bags. "Here." He brought over a twist tie, and Dean nodded with a grin. "That'll work." He carefully attached the star to the top of the tree and stepped back.

"It's pretty," Sam said.

Dean looked at him, raising an eyebrow. "Don't bowl me over with your enthusiasm, kid."

"Oh, I like it," Sam replied hastily. "I just like angels."

Dean shrugged. "Sorry, kid, but I think angels are kind of goofy."

"So, you prefer a star?" Sam asked. "I mean, that's supposed to represent the Star of Bethlehem."

"Wasn't that actually a planet?" Dean asked, digging in the bag.

Sam raised his eyebrows. "For someone who pays no attention in class, you sure know a lot of weird stuff."

"There is a difference between paying attention and letting the teacher know you're paying attention," Dean said.

Sam knit his brows. "What are you talking about?"

"If you let the teachers know you're listening, it leads to all sorts of things, like getting called on and being expected to answer questions and pass tests."

Sam nodded, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, that's all weird stuff to have happen at school."

"It gets in the way of my social life," Dean said. "Not that it matters. It's not like I'm ever going to graduate."

"Yeah you are," Sam said. "You promised Dad you'd go to school."

Dean shook his head. "He's never going to make me stick to that," he said like he really believed it.

Sam laughed. "That's what you think," he said. "Dad says what he means."

Dean shrugged and started putting little colored balls on the tree. "I'll probably flunk out."

Sam picked up a couple of the ornaments from the box. "I wouldn't if I were you," he said warningly and hung them on the tree.

Dean stepped back from the tree and tilted his head. "Think that's too many?"

"No such thing," Sam replied. "And now, the finishing touch." He went into his room and opened the drawer he'd hidden the presents in. Digging under the clothes, he pulled them out. He hadn't had the money for paper, so he'd wrapped them in the Sunday funnies. He took them out into the living room and laid them under the tree.

"Perfect," Dean said, beaming at him. "Now, let's see what we can do about your tells."

Sam thought this Christmas was going to be perfect.

* * *

"Broccoli? Again?" Dean protested as Sam started dinner. "You've got to be kidding."

"It's high in iron, and it's good for you."

"It's disgusting. What kid makes broccoli for dinner? I mean, really."

Sam shrugged. "You can eat the mac and cheese if you won't eat your vegetables."

Dean grinned. "Mac and cheese, now you're talking!" The door opened and Dean looked up. "Where have you been?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. John had gone out just after noon and it was now dark out.

"Shopping," John said. He looked over at the tree, and his eyes widened. "That's great," he said. "I was thinking we needed a tree."

"Sammy helped me decorate it," Dean said.

"But it was Dean's idea," Sam added. "Do you have any bags you need me to bring in?"

"Us," Dean corrected, glancing at Sammy. "That you need us to bring in."

"Oddly enough, no," John said with an air of mystery. Dean took it at face value. It was four days before Christmas. Adults started acting mysterious around then. It was normal.

Apparently, Sammy wasn't familiar with this fact of life. "Dad, what are you up to?" he demanded.

"What's for dinner?" John walked over to the stove and peered over their shoulders. "Broccoli and mac and cheese, huh? Looks good, but what kid makes broccoli?"

"See?" Dean said triumphantly. "I told you."

"I happen to like broccoli," Sammy said.

"There is something wrong with you," Dean replied.

That night, as Sammy changed into his PJs, Dean wondered when Sammy would notice that he always changed in the bathroom. Sunday morning, John went out again, and Dean wondered if he was hunting or what. He figured it didn't matter much, so long as he was back for Christmas. Sammy mentioned something about wishing they had more decorations, and Dean found himself taking Sammy down to the drugstore where they bought construction paper and tape. Lots of tape. They wound up spending most of the morning making and hanging garlands while watching stupid Christmas specials on TV. They had lunch at the Mexican place off Main, and Dean went and rented a few more movies. Sammy was sorely deficient in that area in his opinion.

John got back while they were watching _Ghostbusters_. This time he had bags, and he carried them through into his bedroom.

"Dad, what's –" Sammy said, but the closing of the door cut him off. "I wonder what's going on?" he muttered.

"It's Christmas, dude," Dean said. "He's probably wrapping packages."

Sammy shook his head. "I'm not so sure about that," he said. "Dad's not usually . . . I mean, he's been really good about Christmas the last few years, but even last year we celebrated it two days late."

"Why?"

"He was tracking a werewolf in Idaho. He killed it the day after Christmas, I stitched him up when he got home, and we celebrated on the 27th."

Dean blinked. Giving your dad stitches, what a way to celebrate the holidays. On the other hand, it was a werewolf. "So, werewolves, do they look like they do in the movies?"

Sammy shook his head. "Not remotely," he said. "They're just people gone feral. I mean, their teeth get longer and stuff, I think, but no fur or any of that crap."

The image that called up in Dean's mind was not a pleasant one. "Are they like that all the time?"

"Nope, just for the three days of the full moon, and usually only at night. The rest of the time, they're just normal."

"So, if he's not wrapping packages, what do you figure he's doing?"

"Getting ready for a hunt," Sammy said. "He doesn't always tell me much about them until they're over."

"Huh." Dean compressed his lips. He hoped John wasn't planning a hunt over Christmas. Sammy had little enough that was normal in his life. He deserved that much. If possible.

John emerged and looked around at the front rooms. He let out a whistle. "I can see that Martha Stewart has been here."

"Naw," Dean said. "If Martha Stewart had done this, it would be popcorn and cranberries."

"You have a point," John said, giving him an odd look. "Who's up for pizza?"

"Already ordered," Dean replied. "I hope you like Hawaiian."

"I can do that," John replied, and he settled in to watch _Ghostbusters_.

* * *

Sam couldn't figure out what was up with his dad after what they did on Monday. He considered slipping some holy water into his beer, except he couldn't imagine that a demon would take them to a fun park for a day of bumper cars, video games and hot dogs. Maybe bringing a friend home from school had somehow given his father the impression that he needed more ordinary kid time, which wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing, but it was weird.

On Tuesday, Dean left around ten a.m., saying he had some things to do, so Sam and his father went out to the quarry to fire some rounds. Dad was still trying to help Sam perfect his stance. After that, his dad went to the car and pulled out a couple of knives, saying, "Okay, Sam, while Dean's not here is a good time to get some work done on your knife fighting."

Sam was game for anything, but he tilted his head. "Why while Dean's not here? Because he's got a broken arm?"

His father stood still for a moment, then shook his head. "Let's get started," he said, and he handed Sam a small bowie knife.

Unanswered questions did not get repeated in the Winchester family. If Dad didn't answer a question, there was a reason for it. Sometimes Sam challenged that rule, but not on this occasion. Things were going too well right now for him to want to rock the boat. Sam was left to puzzle over the statement in his mind. Why didn't Dad want to teach Dean knife fighting? He'd need to know it sooner or later. It didn't make sense.

Dean was already at the apartment when they got home, and Sam wondered where he'd been all day. He had a sneaking suspicion that his activities had involved a girl or two, but he didn't ask. Instead he launched into a description of their day, but before he could say anything about the knife practice, Dad interrupted with a request that he start dinner.

After that, Dad took Dean outside, and Sam wondered what they were talking about. Irritably, he started working on dinner.

* * *

Dean stepped out onto the walkway in front of the apartments with John and turned. The last couple of days had been great, but he was still half waiting for the other shoe to drop. "Yes, sir?"

"Dean, I . . . I slipped today," John said, and Dean's brows knit. "I told Sam that we should do his knife fighting practice while you weren't around." Dean tried to control the shudder that ran through him at the images he got from John's words. John nodded. "He doesn't understand why, but the fact is, Sam could pull out a knife at any moment. I think one of us is going to have to tell him you have a phobia."

Dean blinked. That actually made sense in a way he didn't much like. He bit his lip. "Yeah, I get it. I just . . . he doesn't need to know why, right?"

"He'll make guesses," John said. "He's a bright boy, and he's curious."

"Are you going to tell him, or do I have to?"

"Would it be easier for you if I told him?"

Dean shrugged. "I don't know. I . . ." He shuddered. "I wish . . ." He trailed off and shook his head.

John put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. "I know," he said, his eyes glittering slightly. "I got it. You going to stay out here?"

"No, I've got presents to wrap in our room. I'll just go in there."

"Sure," John said. "That'll work." He tousled Dean's hair and opened the door. Not looking at Sam, Dean walked straight across to the bedroom, went in and closed the door. He heard Sam talking outside and closed his ears to it, reaching under the bed for the bag he'd stowed there when he got home.

* * *

Sam looked over at his dad after Dean went into the bedroom. "Dad, what's going on? Did Dean do something wrong?"

Dad shook his head. "It's not that, Sammy," he said, walking over to the chair. "Come over here and sit down."

Sam stopped buttering bread. He went and sat down, looking anxiously at his father. "What is it?"

Leaning over the chair, John said, "You asked a question earlier that I didn't answer." Sam nodded. He'd been wondering about it all day. Taking a deep breath, John sighed. "Dean is phobic of knives, possibly to the point of panic attack." Sam's eyes widened. "I would have told you this afternoon, but I wanted to talk to Dean about it first. He's a little sensitive on the subject, as you might imagine."

"But why?" Sam asked, his mind running over possibilities.

"I'm going to ask you to curb your curiosity on that point, Sammy," Dad said, and Sam shook his head. "Dean doesn't want to talk about it, and we're going to respect that, okay?"

Sam nodded, but he didn't like it. "It's something bad, isn't it?"

"Yeah, Sammy, it is," John said, and he reached out to mess with Sam's hair. Sam didn't dodge this time. "But he'll be okay. Just, don't let's talk about knife fighting practice with him right now."

Sam nodded. "And don't ask him to take me to movies where everybody gets stabbed to death." He sighed. "No wonder he didn't want to see _Scream_."

"So, that's all I needed to say. Just don't bug Dean about it, tiger."

"Of course not," Sam said, mildly affronted by the thought that his father thought he needed that warning. "I've got to finish dinner."

* * *

Dean kept expecting Sammy to say something, or do something, to show that he knew about the knife thing, but there was nothing. He should have known better than to think there would be. Sammy wasn't the kind of guy who'd use something like that against a friend, but suspicion was kind of hardwired into him these days. So many people had kicked him in his weak spots after finding out about them that he was thrown off balance when it didn't happen.

After dinner they watched _Miracle on 34th Street_. It was fun and fluffy and feel good, just right to calm Dean's nerves before bed. John sighed when the movie was over. He looked over at Sammy. "You know, your mom loved that movie."

"Really? I didn't know that," Sammy said.

"We haven't spent a lot of time watching movies together," John said, shrugging. "Well, it's half past eleven, almost Santa time. You boys get to bed."

"Santa time?" Sammy exclaimed. "Dad, I'm thirteen. I don't believe in Santa."

John raised his eyebrows. "Do you believe in presents?" he asked darkly.

Sammy got up. "I'm going, I'm going. Come on, Dean."

They did their usual going to bed routine. It was odd to have settled into a comfortable routine like this so quickly, but it all seemed pretty natural. Dean lay back in bed, dressed in just his boxers and a t-shirt. He was pleasantly sleepy, and very glad he'd managed to get Katie to drive him to the mall that morning. He'd gotten his shopping done, the presents were wrapped, and Christmas was ready to come.

"Dean?"

"Yeah Sammy?" Dean said.

"So far, this is already the best Christmas I've had since my brother disappeared."

Dean found that statement unexpectedly touching. "Go to sleep, squirt," he muttered, and turned over, closing his eyes. After a couple of minutes, he said, "It's the best Christmas I can remember."

"Good night."

"Yeah, yeah. Go to sleep."

* * *

Christmas morning dawned crisp and clear. John heard rustling out in the living room, and he got up to go see if his sons had jumped the gun at all. Peering out the door, he saw that the tree and the presents were untouched, but Sam was in the kitchenette, puttering around. He appeared to be frosting something, and John could smell coffee. It called to him, and he let himself be drawn out into the open.

"Good morning, Dad," Sam said.

"Dean up?"

"I was going to go wave a coffee cup under his nose in a minute," Sam said. "You guys should have the cinnamon rolls while they're still hot."

"Let me," John said. He poured two cups of coffee, then went into the bedroom where Dean was on his stomach in the bed, clutching a pillow. It only took a moment for Dean's head to come up.

"Do I smell coffee?" he murmured.

"You do, and all you have to do to get it is sit up."

"Huh," Dean grunted, but he didn't move.

"So, are you getting up?"

"I'm thinking," Dean said into the pillow. Then he rolled up into a sitting position with a grace John envied. He hadn't been that youthfully flexible in a long time. John handed him the coffee and left him to finish waking up.

* * *

Dean walked out into the living room wearing a pair of sweats and a long-sleeved shirt that was stretched out over his cast. He was awake, he was moderately clean, and he smelled something with cinnamon. "Merry Christmas," Sam said, handing him a plate with two cinnamon rolls on it.

"I knew I liked you," he said. He'd have messed up the kid's hair if both his hands hadn't been full. Instead he just walked over and sat down at the table. John was already there,

"Why can't I have coffee?" Sammy asked.

"It'll stunt your growth." Dean laughed because he and John had spoken together again. John glanced at him and raised an eyebrow. "You're not done growing, you know."

"Who wants to be tall?" Dean replied, taking a long drink of hot, caffeinated beverage. "Apart from our short apprentice hunter over there."

"One of these days I'm going to be taller than both of you," Sam announced.

"Big words, little man," John said. "Come sit down. Eat your breakfast."

"I was just pouring myself a glass of milk." He walked over with a plate and his milk and sat down. "I have a confession to make."

"Yeah?" John asked.

"I didn't even think about Christmas dinner, so unless we're good with macaroni and cheese, I hope someone else has an idea."

"I got nothing," Dean said around a mouthful of cinnamon roll.

"Don't worry, I've got it covered," John said, getting up. "And now it's time for presents." He walked into his bedroom and emerged with two bulging red and white stockings which he deposited on the table beside each of them.

"Sir, there's no need –" Dean protested. John just gave him a look, and Dean shut up. He was finding all of this a little overwhelming. Sammy shoved his last cinnamon roll into his mouth whole, pushed his plate aside and dumped his stocking out on the table. Bits of red and white candy scattered all over together with Hershey's kisses. There were several wrapped presents in with the candy.

Dean finished his cinnamon roll a little more sedately and started digging into his stocking. Amid all the candy were two wrapped presents. Dean looked up and saw Sammy opening one of his. It was a knobbly pocket knife, and Dean averted his eyes quickly before Sammy could start looking at the blades. He didn't, though, he just thanked his father and put it back in the stocking. Dean started unwrapping his first present, hoping he didn't have one of those lurking in bright paper. The first one was long and skinny, and when he got the wrappings torn off, it proved to be a penlight. He put it aside and opened the other one, which proved to be a silver flask of the sort that people carried alcohol in. He glanced up at John.

"We'll fill that with holy water," John said. "Good against a number of creepies, but demons primarily." Dean nodded, and opened it, looking inside.

"Is it real silver?" Sammy asked.

"Yup." Dean gave John a startled look. "Lots of nasties don't like silver, as well, so it's handy to have around."

"We buy sterling silver flatware at estate sales and melt it down to make bullets," Sammy said.

Dean had a sudden vivid image of the process used to make bullets and swallowed, trying to contain his reaction because it had no place on Christmas morning. In the past two weeks, Sammy had shaken more of his memories loose than Dean had managed in the last five years. It was weird.

"So, how about the tree presents?" Dean suggested, feeling kind of lopsided to be on the receiving end only.

"Sounds good to me," John said. He walked over and refilled his coffee cup while Sammy and Dean went over by the tree.

"How do you folks do this?" Dean asked Sammy.

"Bobby says we make it too civilized, that Christmas morning is supposed to be chaos, but I think Dad likes things organized."

"That I do," John said, settling himself on the floor next to the tree. "Besides, this extends the anticipation, which is half the fun."

Dean sat down on the floor with Sammy and John, and John rooted under the tree for presents. He located one for Sammy and passed it across. Dean didn't recognize it, so he knew it must be from John – unless he'd been transporting presents from Uncle Bobby. Dean supposed that was a possibility. He was growing curious about this Bobby guy.

Sammy opened up the present, and it was a nice leather wallet. Sam exclaimed over it and started flipping through it. "This is cool, Dad."

John grinned and dropped a present in Dean's lap. Dean took one look at John's face and decided not to protest that he didn't expect presents and just accept them with grace. He opened it and found a fleece-lined, dark blue denim jacket. "Try it on," John said. "We can exchange if it's too small."

Dean stood up and put the jacket on, but it fit with a little room. "It's perfect," he said. "Thanks, John."

"Don't thank me, you'll need it," John said. "If you're going to shadow me on hunts."

Dean nodded and, taking the jacket off, he lay it on the chair and sat down again. "Your turn, sir," he said.

"Are there any presents under here for me?" John asked, amused.

"Dad!" Sammy exclaimed. He reached under and pulled out one wrapped in the Sunday funnies. "Here." John took the present with a grin and started unwrapping it. It turned out to be a t-shirt. John shook it out and stared at it. "I wasn't sure about the size," Sammy said. "I hope it fits."

John leaned over and gave Sammy a sideways hug. "Thanks, Sammy," he said, and his eyes were all glittery again. He put the shirt on over the long john shirt he was already wearing. Dean grinned when he saw it and understood why John was so pleased. What dad wouldn't be happy to get a shirt calling him the world's greatest dad?

"It's got a shotgun on it," Sammy said.

"So it does," John said, squeezing the bridge of his nose like he had an itch or something. He dug out another present. "Here, tiger."

They went around the circle like that, present after present. Not surprisingly, Sam had the most, but younger kids always did. Besides, Dean hadn't expected any presents, much less the small but respectable pile he accumulated. Sammy got a nice, leather bound journal and a Game Boy from Bobby, a couple of shirts and a cop-quality flashlight. Dean got one of those, too, and a cool little '64 Mustang model from Sammy, with working doors and everything. His own presents were well received. He gave Sammy a portable CD player with a radio built in, the kind that strapped to the belt and had headphones, together with a few CDs in a little case. He'd stopped by a hunting store to pick up some odds and ends for John, including soap that was designed to rid a person of his own scent and render him neutral to animals. Dean reasoned it might work on monsters too.

John saved the best for last, though. Dean took the box John held out to him and was startled by the weight. He glanced over at the older man, who gestured for him to open it. Sammy was watching with interest. Dean ripped the paper off and found a shoebox inside. Opening it, he saw a gun, and his mind filled in the details from that place he didn't have direct access to. It was a Colt 1911, .45 caliber, with pearl grip panels. He looked up. "John, this is too much."

"You'll need it, and if Sammy's to be believed, you've already got the skills to use it."

Dean shook his head. "John . . ."

"I want you to have it, Dean," John said firmly. "Don't worry, I've got plenty more."

Sammy got up on his knees and peered into the box. "Cool!" he exclaimed. "We could go shooting before dinner. You should get to know the feel of it before you need to use it."

Dean nodded wordlessly. He felt his own eyes start to fill with moisture, and bit his lip to keep the tears from falling. He hadn't had a nice Christmas in years, and never one like this – at least not that he could remember.

They picked up the detritus of wrapping paper and packaging, and John disappeared to take a shower. Dean looked at Sammy. "You don't mind him giving this to me?" he asked, hefting the semi-automatic pistol.

"Why would I?" Sammy asked. "I've got my own." He gestured to the gun he'd used more than a week ago, that Sunday when they went shooting. "Dad gave it to me last year, early. He was hunting that werewolf, and wanted me to be ready with silver bullets in case it came after me."

"Right," Dean said. He checked the gun and found it to be unloaded with the safety on.

John came out of the bathroom and said, "Sam, show Dean where to get bullets and help him load the gun."

"Sure, Dad," Sammy said as John went into his bedroom. Dean sat down with Sammy at the table, but all the kid had to do was pull out the bullets and Dean knew exactly what to do. He started loading them into the magazine, pressing against the spring under the follower. He could see in his mind's eye a cutaway view of what the magazine looked like inside. "Twelve rounds should fit," Sammy said.

Dean nodded slowly. "Thanks, Sammy."

John came out of the bedroom. "Why don't I drop you boys off at the quarry and go get dinner?" he suggested. Dean looked up and nodded. "Sam, go get dressed."

Sammy scurried off to the bedroom, and Dean bit his lip. "John?"

"Yeah, Dean?"

"I have . . . I know you know I don't remember anything before . . . what happened." John nodded. "But I keep having things pop up, like knowing about guns. It's weird. I'm not sure what it means."

John shrugged. "It means you have some experience with guns from before," he said easily. "It's not that unusual. Maybe your father was in the military or police."

Dean blinked. He hadn't thought of that. "So it might be a clue," he said, eyes widening. "Something I can use to help me find them."

John nodded and looked away. "That's a smart idea," he said. "You know, I was thinking, Garrettville's only about two hours away."

"Yeah."

"We could go over there on Friday or Monday, get a look at the records you want to see, and get that taken care of before your birthday."

Dean blinked. He'd always thought of it in terms of having to go by himself, after he bought a car, and he wanted that to be taken care of without having to involve an adult like Jake. He didn't actually have to wait until after he turned eighteen. "That's a great idea, but I've got a couple of stops to make."

"Yeah?"

Dean grimaced. "I sort of collapsed in someone's front yard, and the people were just really nice to me. I mean, yeah, what else are you going to do with a bloody twelve-year-old, but . . ." John's face went a little green, and Dean shrugged uncomfortably. "I'd just like to see them again, to thank them. If I can."

"I think that's a great idea," John said. "Get your coat."

Dean went and grabbed the denim jacket John had gotten him. He never had gone back into the woods to get the jacket he'd put around Nancy's ghostly shoulders, and now he didn't have to. Sam came out while he was putting it on. He had to leave the right cuff unbuttoned over the cast. "You ready, kid?"

Sammy's eyes flashed. "My name is Sam, not kid," he replied, grinning.

Dean looked at John. "You know, those are the first words he ever said to me."

"Oh yeah?"

"He called me a tough little squirt," Sammy said.

"Yeah, well, you are," Dean said, messing up Sammy's hair with a quick ruffle.

"How did you meet?"

"Well, we have PE together," Sammy said. "But the first time we ever really talked was when I saved him from some bullies." Dean rolled his eyes and sighed. He'd brought it up.

John looked back and forth between them. "What?" he asked.

"The local bully and his two best friends had decided to 'teach me to interfere,'" Dean said. "I told them I already knew how, but they didn't seem to appreciate it."

John's eyes widened. "I can see I'm going to have to extend my instructions about keeping a low profile to you."

"Hey, I keep a low profile," Dean protested. "I just don't approve of jocks beating up on geeks."

"So you interfered."

"Exactly," Dean said.

"And three of them ganged up on him after school," Sammy said. "I walked by and I tried, Dad, I tried to just let it go, but when two of them grabbed him so that Tom could pummel him, I just couldn't. You wouldn't have." John heaved a sigh. "It wasn't on school grounds," Sammy added, as if that made it all better.

"Hey, I tried to tell him he should have stayed out of it," Dean said. "But he wasn't having it." He decided not to add that Sammy had already had an altercation with Tom, because he didn't think Sammy would be thrilled if his dad got on him about another fight.

John shook his head as if giving up on them. "Let's get going, or dinner will be later than I'd prefer."

They all piled into the car and John drove them to the quarry. Christmas day was also not a big day for shooting around here, so they had it to themselves. John stuck around for a few minutes to watch Dean shoot, and he felt very self conscious as Sammy set up shots, and he took them. It was awkward with the cast, but he still did pretty well.

"Not bad," John said, and it sounded like he meant it. Then he got into the car and drove away.

* * *

John drove out of town and a distance up the highway before pulling over and burying his face in his hands. What if that had never happened? What if he'd just ignored Sam's protests at the beginning of December and pulled him out of school when he went to hunt in the southern part of the state? They could have just left this town – and Dean – behind without ever knowing any better.

And how like his sons to meet because one of them stopped the other from getting beaten up for stopping someone else from getting beaten up.

The morning had been everything he could have wished for. Even Bobby wouldn't have complained about this Christmas – apart from his notion that the kids should just dive at the presents and open them randomly.

When Dean had suggested that his knowledge of guns might be a clue to finding his parents, John had nearly lost it right there, but he was still wary of wigging the kid out. Announcing that he'd already found his family, it was right there around him, might just send him into a panic and make him bolt. He was glad he'd suggested going to Garrettville early. That would make things easier. If, as he suspected, they didn't find anything concrete leading in a specific direction, then they could head straight for Bobby's without delay.

He got back on the road and drove to the Flying J. While he was there, he found a pay phone and called Bobby on one of his fake credit cards. It took three rings for him to pick up. "Hello," he said, sounding half asleep.

"Merry Christmas, Bobby," John said. "You still in bed?"

"No reason for me to get up," Bobby replied. "Haven't heard from Sam yet. Usually he calls me around now."

"He's out shooting with a friend," John replied. "I'm sure he'll call you later on. He –"

"About that," Bobby said. "This friend, is it the Dean kid Sam mentioned to me?"

John blinked. "Yeah. Sam mentioned him?"

"Yeah, when I called about the fax, he told me you'd taken on some kind of apprentice, a kid named Dean. John, are you sure that's wise?"

John laughed a little. He could see why Bobby was concerned, but it really wasn't an issue. "Yeah, Bobby, I am. I just called to see if you had anything on those glyphs."

"Nothing really, just a feeling that they're old. Your victim give you any more details?"

"No," John said. "Phobic of knives, but that's not exactly shocking."

"Not exactly," Bobby replied. "John, I'm worried. Maybe you can keep this Dean kid separate from your Dean, but Sammy's at a real impressionable age. You know how much he misses his brother."

"Trust me, Bobby, I got it," John said. He knew Bobby would worry anyway, but he'd understand soon enough. "We may be on our way to you as soon as the second of January."

"Call and let me know."

John hung up. Yeah, Bobby was still worried, but there was nothing John could do to reassure him beyond bringing Dean to South Dakota.


	11. Chapter 11

Bobby went to get the phone on the day after Christmas, expecting it was someone needing a tow. Holidays were always big times for tow truck drivers. "Singer Salvage."

An automated female voice came on the line. "You are receiving a collect call. Caller, will you please state your name?" Then a very familiar voice. "Sam Winchester." "Will you accept the –"

Bobby cut off the automated voice with a curt, "Yes."

"Bobby?"

"Sam, is something wrong?" Bobby demanded.

"No, Bobby, I just wanted to talk to you."

"You just talked to me yesterday," Bobby said, coming down off his alarm. "What is it?"

"Nothing, I just . . . Dad and Dean went off together and they wouldn't let me come, so I figured I'd call you since we really didn't get to talk much yesterday."

"Oh." Bobby grimaced. Dad and Dean indeed. This got better with everything he heard. "Where'd they go?"

"Garrettville," Sam said. "They're doing research in the police station or something, and they didn't want to leave me in the car."

"I see."

"Anything new happening at your place?"

"Not so much," Bobby said. "The Talmadges moved, and another family moved into their place, they've got a son about your age." Sam made a noncommittal noise at news that would have thrilled him two years before. "So tell me about this Dean character."

That elicited a lot more enthusiasm. "He's totally cool," Sam said. "He's almost eighteen, and he's great. We started hanging out together about two weeks ago, after school."

"Hanging out together?" Bobby asked. "An eighteen-year-old and a thirteen-year-old?"

"Well, he thought I was fourteen," Sam said.

Bobby shook his head. "Lyin' about your age again, huh?"

"Yeah, of course," Sam said. "So, Dean and me, we did a hunt together, and after that I took him shooting and stuff. He took me with him to the garage where he works, and I got to help out. It was awesome."

Bobby took a deep breath. "Look, what does this kid's family think of him leaving with you guys?"

"He doesn't have a family, Bobby," Sam said. "He was living with an abusive foster father until Dad took him away." Bobby blinked. That did sound like John. "The guy made him break his arm," Sam said, sounding outraged. "And I saw him shove him into a wall."

"Hell," Bobby said. "Yeah, you've got to get him out of there."

"Oh, he's out. We just had the best Christmas ever!" Sam announced. "And when Dean's eighteen, we're going to come to see you. I think maybe we'll stop by Pastor Jim's on the way, but –"

"Jim's out of town right now," Bobby said. The best Christmas, huh? That had him worried. "You should just come straight here. Why are you guys waiting till the second?"

"Dean's got something he's got to do, something about being on probation. I guess he ran away and got caught in a stolen car or something. He has to stick around till after his eighteenth birthday, on the first."

"Well, then, I'll see you sometime on the third or fourth, I guess."

"Yeah. What do you want for Christmas, Bobby?"

"I don't need nothing, Sammy."

"I didn't ask what you need, Bobby," Sam said. "And it's Sam, okay?"

"Yeah, okay, Sam," Bobby said with emphasis. "I don't –"

"What do you want, Bobby?" Sam asked determinedly.

"A pony," Bobby said facetiously.

"A pony?" Sam asked incredulously. "You don't have enough grass for a pony to graze."

"Well, maybe not a pony. Sam, I'm fine. I don't need anything."

"What'd you do yesterday?"

Bobby shrugged. "I went out and picked up a couple who got their car stuck in a ditch, and I made myself some pot roast. Oh, and I talked to this really annoying kid who used to live with me."

Sam laughed. "Do I know him?" he asked.

"You might just," Bobby replied.

"Do you miss having me around?" Sam asked.

Bobby made a face. How did he answer that without making the kid feel bad? Either way was bound to make him worry. "Yeah, sometimes. When the dishes need done," he said gruffly.

"I miss you sometimes, too," Sam said. Bobby imagined he did, especially when John went off on hunts alone like he tended to.

"How long were you alone this time?" Bobby asked.

"Only a few days," Sam said. "I mean, Dad was gone almost a week, but Dean stayed with me on Saturday and Sunday nights, and Dad came back for the night on Monday because a kid died in town and he got all worried."

"Oh." Bobby grimaced. "Dean stayed with you? How long have you known this kid?"

"We've had the same PE class since I came to Fort William," Sam said. "But we only really started talking like two weeks ago yesterday. I know it sounds fast, but, Bobby, if you hunt with someone, it gets a bunch of stuff out of the way. I mean, you can't spend a night digging up a grave with a guy without getting past the awkward stuff."

"No, I guess not," Bobby said.

"I mean, he told me knock-knock jokes while he dug her up, and then she almost killed him. I saved his life. If we weren't friends after that, don't you think it would be kind of weird?"

"Put like that, I can see your point," Bobby said.

"Well, this is your dime, so I'd better go."

"Take care of yourself, Sam."

"Always do."

* * *

Dean sighed. The police reports had been a total bust, and the detective he remembered talking to was long gone, moved to California. The only address they had for George Hendley and his wife was from 1991, which may have been only five years ago, but people moved all the time.

He headed out to the car with John, who didn't even ask. He just started driving towards the address they had for the Hendleys. "I was really hoping they had more information that they hadn't felt the need to pass on to Social Services," Dean said.

"It was worth a try. It's a shame that detective is gone. He might have been useful."

"I suppose I could try calling him. Fresno, California."

"Or we could go out there, after visiting Bobby."

Dean turned to him. "Seriously?"

"Why not?" John asked. "There are ghosts and demons and scary things all over the country. I wasn't kidding when I said I could help you find your family while I train you to hunt."

Dean leaned back in the seat and shook his head. "John, what are you getting out of this?"

John didn't answer instantly, which made Dean turn and look at him. An immediate answer would have made him leery, but he really did want to know what John had to say. He was finding this whole situation a little surreal. He liked it, but he was afraid he was getting in too deep and didn't quite understand what John's motives were. Sam's he understood perfectly, Sam wanted an older brother. Dean was happy to fill that role so long as Sam realized he wasn't replacing the brother he'd lost. John was harder.

"My son disappeared," John said at length. "And I'd like to think that someone would do the same for him as I'm doing for you."

Deans brow's knit. "Oh." He shook his head. "Sammy said you thought he was dead."

John nodded. "Yeah, but I could be wrong, and if I am, I'd hope that someone would take good care of him."

That explained all the glittering eyes and emotional moments. "I'm not him, you know," Dean said.

John didn't say anything for a moment, but at the next stoplight, he turned to face Dean. "I don't expect you to be anyone you're not, Dean," John said. "But don't worry, my intentions are exactly what I stated. I want to train you, I want you to finish school and keep an eye on Sammy for me, and I want to help you rejoin your family."

Dean nodded slowly. "Thank you."

John shrugged, and they continued in silence the rest of the way to the Hendleys' place. John pulled up in front of the house, and Dean looked out the window. The house was a different color now, and the paint looked new. He really hoped that didn't mean that new people had moved in. He opened the car door and got out, and he heard John get out of the car behind him. Taking a deep breath, he walked up to the door and pushed the door bell.

A few moments later, he heard footsteps, and a woman opened the door. "Yes, may I help you?" she asked. Dean stared at her, dumbstruck. It was the face that occupied his dreams, the face that heralded the end of the nightmare.

"Hello, are you Cora Hendley?" John asked, and it was good he did, because Dean was incapable of speech.

"I am. You are?"

"I'm Dean," Dean said, and her eyes turned towards him. "More than five years ago, you and your husband, you found me . . ." His hand did the talking for him, pointing to the flower bed in front of the window.

Her eyes widened. "My God, is it really . . . it is." She pushed the screen door open and stepped to the side of the frame. "Come in, young man, please." Dean followed her inside, looking around. All his memories of this house were fragmented, jigsaw puzzle pieces that he couldn't connect together. She walked over to a staircase. "George!" she called. "George, come down here." Turning back to them, she said, "Look at you, all grown up. I'm so glad to see you again. They told us you lived, but they said they were afraid that if you saw us it would bring the memories back."

Dean shook his head. "You . . . sometimes I have a nightmare about . . . that . . . I see you – your face – at the end, and I know I'm safe."

She cupped her hand over her mouth, and he saw tears start in her eyes. He was holding them back himself. Seeing her again, knowing that she was real, it was an incredible feeling.

George came down the stairs, and Dean immediately recognized him, too. However, George just saw two men he didn't know and his wife crying. "Cora, what's wrong?"

"Wrong? Nothing. George, it's that boy, Dean." She took Dean's shoulder and turned him towards her husband.

George turned to Dean and stared at him. "My God, it is," he breathed. He closed the distance between them and put his hands on Dean's shoulders. It was odd to realize that they were almost the same height. "It's good to see you, boy. I've always wondered what happened to you, if you were okay."

"I'm good," Dean said. "I'm great, actually. I just . . . I wanted to thank you for all you did."

"We didn't do much," George said. "Just what anyone would do."

"I don't think just anyone would put a bloody stranger on one of their own beds," Dean said. "And you made me feel safe, which I hadn't for a . . . awhile. It meant a lot."

"Well, I can tell you, it means a lot to me to know that you've grown up into a fine young man," George said. "And I see you found your father."

Dean turned toward John, startled and embarrassed, but John immediately stepped forward, putting out a hand. "Yes, he has, and I wanted to thank you myself. And don't say it was nothing, because it wasn't."

"Please, won't you both come into the living room and sit down?" Dean followed John into the living room, not sure what to feel. He could see that George and Cora were pleased, though, and he did want to leave them happy. The adults talked and he sort of listened. John was spinning some tale about how they'd just been reunited.

"Can I see the room you put me down in?" he said suddenly. "I don't know, maybe it sounds weird, but my memory of that night is so splintered that I'd like to see things whole if I can."

"Of course," Cora said. "It's right along back here." She stood up and led them all down a hallway. Dean saw a photograph on the wall that he remembered seeing when the paramedics rolled him out of the house on their gurney. The room was almost exactly as he remembered it. "It's my niece Sarah's room," Cora said. "When she comes to stay with us, that is."

Dean looked around. "It's a really nice room," he said. "I hope I didn't screw up the bed too much."

"Nothing worth speaking of," George said, waving his hand. "So, did they catch the guy?"

Dean shook his head. "No, never," he said. "They labeled it a cold case and filed it a couple of years ago."

"We're going to see what we can do to remedy that," John said.

"Good," Cora pronounced. "Someone like that should be gotten off the streets."

"Hell, he should be put down," George said.

Cora put a restraining hand on her husband's arm. "Your son was a mess when he turned up here, poor thing."

Dean shivered slightly and walked over to look out the window. He felt his shoulders tense. "I . . . I remember that," he said, staring at an ornate, wrought iron fence behind the house. It ran along the street as well. "I saw that before."

John was beside him in an instant. "What?"

"That fence. I walked by it, I think."

"The police never could backtrack your steps," George said, joining them at the window. "It was already sprinkling when you showed up, and then the rain started coming down in buckets. Any trace you might have left was gone before anyone got here to look."

"And I wasn't in any condition to help," Dean said. "Not for months after, and by then they just wanted to help me move on because any reminder sent me hysterical."

* * *

John put a hand on Dean's shoulder, and he could feel the boy's tremors. "Maybe we should go, son," he said. There was a frenetic energy under Dean's exterior that worried John.

"No, I want to see if we can find it. The place." Dean looked up at him, eyes pleading. "I want to look."

"Dean, are you sure you're up to it?" Dean nodded earnestly. "He won't be there now, it's been five years."

"I need to know, and if we find it, we can tell the cops. It will give them something more to go on."

"Dean –" John started, but Dean interrupted him.

"I have to know."

John squeezed Dean's shoulder. "I understand, son. We can give it a try, but if I say it's time to stop, we stop." Dean nodded quickly, clearly eager to agree to whatever it would take for John to go for it. Pushing his misgivings aside, John turned to the Hendleys. "Do you mind if I leave my car out front?"

George Hendley shook his head, and John could tell that the other man recognized John's dilemma. "Do whatever you need to do, John," he said. "We'll be here if you need anything."

"Thanks," John said. Dean was impatient to be gone, but John held him back to his own pace, not wanting him to get ahead and out of control without back up.

They went outside and around the corner. The fence was around some kind of old industrial complex, it looked like the buildings dated from the twenties or thirties. Dean looked up at the street lights. "It was dark," he said. "The only lights came from above." He sounded very disturbed, and John squeezed his shoulder again, keeping Dean close beside him.

"We don't have to do this, Dean," John said.

"I do," Dean replied. "I . . ." He pulled them forward and John sped up his steps, trying to keep up. His son was still shaking, but he was also determined. John knew stubbornness intimately. His boys got it from both sides. The road led between warehouses, and even on this day after Christmas, things were busy. When Dean had come down this sidewalk five years before, though, it had been deep in the night between Saturday and Sunday.

"Was there anyone around?" John asked.

Dean shook his head. "It was like there was no one on earth but me," he said. "But I knew if I kept going long enough, I would find other people, and I had to get away."

John nodded. Worried as he was about Dean's reactions, this was knowledge they needed to figure out what had happened to him, to find out who or what had done it. They kept going. Dean seemed to be oblivious to side streets, just going steadily forward, his hand going out from time to time, reaching for chain link fences, low walls, all things he might have used to help him keep moving in that nightmare past.

John himself was looking around. It was exactly the kind of area monsters and serial killers tended to choose for their haunts. Places where people weren't around at night, and where the daytime was noisy. A truck's lift jolted into motion beside them, and Dean jumped like he'd been struck by the sound. "Dean, are you okay?"

Dean didn't answer, he just kept pressing on. John wondered how much or little these buildings had changed in five years. None of them appeared to be newly painted, not like the Hendley's house. They'd gone twelve blocks already, and they were long blocks. "Are you sure we haven't come too far?" he asked, recalling the severity of Dean's injuries. How far could he really have walked in that state?

"I remember it," Dean said. They had reached a corner and he turned around, pointing at an open dock that had a semi backed up against it. "There was a car parked there, under the dock, a Honda, and I remember wishing I was tall enough to drive it because I had to get farther away fast."

John nodded. "Okay."

Dean looked up at him. "You believe me, don't you?"

"Of course, I do," John said, and he put his arm around Dean, squeezing. Emotions were churning through him. John had spent that week in May of 1991 at the Roadhouse. At that point, Dean had been gone for almost two months, and John was giving his picture to every hunter he met, telling them the story and asking for their help. Hunters tended to be a surly, gruff lot, but a missing kid got to the worst of them, and a missing hunter's kid made them listen. Everyone got into hunting somehow, and most of them had lost someone to some supernatural danger. To then lose a child to an unknown threat . . .

And during that week, Dean had escaped his captor and walked, bleeding and in pain, as far as he could until he'd collapsed in the Hendley's front yard.

They kept going, and John began to marvel at his young son's endurance. More of the warehouses were vacant now, with broken or boarded up windows. A couple were in use, but John wasn't altogether comfortable with the look of those who were around them. John was about to call a halt to the proceedings till they could go back for the car and the weapons cache. He hadn't rearmed after their visit to the police station, and he felt undergunned for this area.

Abruptly, Dean stopped dead in his tracks, practically vibrating with emotion. John looked down at him. "Dean?"

"That's it," Dean said, pointing at the building across the street. It was derelict. Most of the windows were covered with boards, and there was a large piece of weathered plywood covering half of one of the wooden rollaway doors. Dean didn't appear to be wanting to move any closer. "There was a hole at the bottom of that door. I squeezed through it."

John estimated that they might have come five or more miles on this walk. He wondered if the cops had even gotten out this far. He wouldn't have guessed that an injured and bleeding twelve-year-old could have come this distance, not even his son.

John started to suggest that they come back later, with the car and more tools, but Dean suddenly bolted forward, out of the comforting circle of John's arm. He ran across to the plywood patch, and John hurried after him. When he reached him, the boy had dug his fingers under the edge of the patch, not difficult with the way it and the wood of the door had warped over years in this damp climate, and was pulling with all his might. John could hear the squeal of nails being wrenched out of long entrenched places. Knowing that he wouldn't be able to stop Dean, he lent his own strength to the effort and together they dragged the patch off the door. The hole beneath it extended irregularly up the length of the door on the wall end, but it was partially covered on the other side with another, more solid piece of wood. The gap beneath the inner patch was narrow, and John shook his head.

"I fit," Dean insisted. "I did."

"I believe you, Dean," John said, putting his hand on Dean's cheek, cupping it. "I believe you, I'm just appalled by . . . by what you had to do."

Dean stared at him for a moment, then stepped back, examining the building for a way in. The doors they were facing were held shut with an old, rusty padlock. John dug in his inside jacket pocket for his picks. Within moments, he had it unlocked, but getting the hasp to release its rusty hold took some effort. John finally managed to get it loose and pulled the lock out of the latch. The doors didn't want to move. The right hand door was blocked by the interior patch, and the wheels on the left-hand door were frozen in place. Between them, they finally managed to move it a few feet, wide enough for John to squeeze through. With the door open in front of them, Dean seemed to hesitate.

"You don't have to go in," John said. "I could leave you with the Hendleys and come back with the car."

Dean shook his head, reached into his pocket and pulled out the penlight John had given him for Christmas. John held him back when he started to go in. "I'm going," Dean said, glaring at him, daring him to deny his right. John was tempted to stop him. He was clearly on a razor's edge emotionally, and there was an alarming wildness in his eyes. Nevertheless, John didn't feel able to stand in the kid's way. He clearly felt he needed this, and while John wasn't sure it was the smartest idea, Dean was fully capable of coming back on his own. John wanted to be present for any trips down this particular memory lane.

"It's not that," John said. "I'd just rather go first."

Dean bit his lip and nodded. John pulled a slightly more substantial flashlight out of his jeans pocket and stepped through into stygian darkness. The beam of his flashlight cut through the darkness like a knife, but there wasn't much spread to it. It lit what it was pointed at and nothing more. Dean came in behind him, his penlight flitting from place to place.

The warehouse appeared to be largely empty, and the floor had kind of a spongy feel to it. "Be careful, I'm not sure how solid the footing is," he said. Just as he said that, Dean darted off across the warehouse floor. John flashed his light along his path and saw Dean disappear around a pillar. It looked like someone had built a wall between the pillars along a straight line down that end of the building. "Dean!" he called, and he chased after him.

He nearly ran into Dean, who had stopped just out of sight, his penlight shining on a wall straight in front of him. There was some kind of design painted on there, and John pointed his flashlight at it to illuminate more of it. It was some kind of sigil, about five foot by five foot. John took a step back and tried to expand the pool of light his flashlight threw so he could get a clearer view of the whole design. "What is it?" he asked.

"I don't know, but he painted it everywhere we went," Dean said, his voice peculiarly flat.

John took a deep breath. "He?"

"The man," Dean said. He turned right and walked around the wall. John followed, feeling a little undone. He was standing in the place where his son had been tortured. A sort of three-walled enclosure was built between two pillars, and the walls of it were painted black. Dean stopped, staring at a dark stain on the floor. "Here." He pointed. "Only there were . . . chains before."

"You were chained?"

Dean nodded. "I . . . I . . ." He shook his head and fell to his knees, hunching his back and rocking.

John dropped to his knees beside Dean and put his arm around him. "Dean? It's okay, you're safe, you're with me." Dean didn't respond, he just huddled in John's arms and leaned closer. John held him tightly and kept repeating the mantra of safety. After awhile, he said, "Dean? We need to get out of here."

"John?" Dean pulled away. Heart struck to the quick by the name, John let him go. Why he'd been hoping that Dean would suddenly remember him now was beyond him, he only knew he had been. "I'm sorry."

"It's not a problem, Dean," John said. "But it's getting cold and the Hendleys are probably worried sick about us by now."

"It was here," Dean said.

"I know, Dean, I believe you."

Dean allowed John to pull him to his feet and guide him out of the building. As they walked past the sigil, John wished he had a camera, but maybe he could come back before they drove back to Fort William. He had a camera and a bright light source in the car.

It was dark by the time they finished the long walk back. George Hendley emerged from the house when they reached the car. John got Dean into the car and walked over. "Did you find anything?" George asked.

"Nothing conclusive," John said, shaking his head. "But Dean's worn out. I'm taking him home. Thank you again."

"I couldn't have done anything else," George said, glancing at Dean in the car. "The only thing he said to me was his name and 'where's my dad?' I'm glad he found you."

John nodded, a lump in his throat. "Me too."

They shook hands. "Take care of him," George said.

"I will," John replied. He went back to the car and got in on the driver's side.


	12. Chapter 12

Sam was thinking of calling Bobby when the phone finally rang. It was past nine, and they still weren't back. Sam hurried to the phone hoping that it wasn't a telemarketer. "Hello?"

"Sam, it's Dad."

"Dad, where are you guys? I expected you back by seven or eight. I had dinner ready and –" Sam shook his head. "Are you guys okay?"

"We're fine, Sammy," Dad said. "Something came up, and we're just leaving Garrettville now."

"Oh. So, two hours?"

"Maybe less. There's no traffic. Go to bed at ten, Sammy. Everything's fine."

"Dad, what came up?"

"I have to get off the phone, Sam, or we're not going to be able to get started. Okay?"

Sam sighed and nodded. "Okay."

"We'll be there soon, tiger. I love you." Sam heard his father hang up and slowly put the phone down himself. Something came up, but what? Did they do a hunt in Garrettville? Was there a hunt in Garrettville? Sam just knew that they'd been going to look for Dean's parents. Maybe they'd found something that they could look for in the immediate vicinity. Or maybe something had happened and Dean had gotten upset.

Sam wished he could have gone with them. He wanted to know what was going on, and no one would tell him anything because he was thirteen. And what would happen if they found Dean's family? Dean would stay with them, and Sam would probably never see him again. He'd be alone with Dad. Again. But that was selfish. Of course, Dean's family could be jerks. Most foster kids got taken away from their families for a reason.

He paced unhappily while he waited, unable to settle to anything. Dinner had gotten cold and nasty, and Sam hadn't eaten anything. He supposed he should try, but having both of them gone was making him really nervous. He didn't know why.

When he heard the growl of the Impala's engine outside, he hurried out onto the walkway and hovered at the top of the steps. Dad got out of the car with a white pizza box in his hands, and he peered back inside like he was worried. Sam took off running and opened the passenger door to find a very quiet Dean sitting there. "Dean?" Sam said.

Dean looked up. "Sammy," he said with an abstracted smile. "Hey."

"Are you coming inside?"

"Right," Dean said, and he got out of the car. "Did you have a good day, Sammy?"

"Sure," Sam said. He glanced over at his father who just shook his head and gestured for Sam to take Dean into the apartment. "I called Bobby and told him all about you. He's excited to meet you."

"Cool."

Once upstairs, his father grabbed paper plates and sodas while Sam got Dean over to the sofa and sat him down. Over pizza, Dean gradually grew more normal, but Sam had the feeling that it was all a façade. He wasn't sure what was going on or what had happened, but his dad was worried, that much was clear.

After they'd each had some pizza, his dad said, "Okay, boys, time for bed."

Sam nodded and went to change. Dean disappeared into the bathroom and came out in his t-shirt and a pair of boxers. They both got into bed, and Dean turned over to face the wall. "Good night," Sam said.

Dean turned his head. "Sleep well, Sammy."

Sam turned out the lights and fell quickly asleep.

Loud screaming woke him suddenly in the night. He reached out and turned on the light on the table between the beds. Dean was sitting up in bed, yelling at the top of his lungs. Sam stared at him in shock with no idea what to do. Dean looked totally awake, but he was staring at nothing.

"Dean?" Sam said, but Dean didn't seem to hear him. The volume abated some, but he was breathing hard and he looked terrified. Sam got up and walked towards him. "Dean? Are you –"

Dad came running in, caroming off the door frame. Pushing Sam aside, he hurried to the bed and grabbed Dean by the shoulders, shaking him. "Dean! Dean, wake up! Dean?" The minute John touched him, Dean absolutely freaked out, trying to get away, but Dad just held on and kept trying to wake him up.

Sam got back on his bed and clutched his knees to his chest, staring in dismay, not sure what was happening.

After awhile, Dean sort of relaxed and leaned against John, heaving dry sobs and clutching him. "It's okay, Dean," Dad said, stroking his back. "It's okay. You're safe. He can't find you." Finally, Dad got Dean to lie down again, and he went back to sleep.

Sam's dad leaned forward and stroked Dean's hair, then turned to see Sam watching. He switched beds and pulled Sam into a tight hug. "It's okay, Sammy," he said. "Dean just had what's called a night terror."

"A nightmare? But why didn't he calm down when he woke up?"

"Not a nightmare, Sam, a night terror. He wasn't really awake." Dad glanced over at Dean. "I know it looked like he was, but he wasn't."

"What happened today?" Sam asked.

Dad looked over at Dean again, then got up and beckoned Sam to come out of the bedroom with him. Sam followed him into the living room where Dad sat down next to him and put his arm around him. "Dean and I found some stuff out that really upset him," he said. "It was kind of unexpected, so we weren't really prepared, and stress can cause night terrors. I knew he was prone to them when he was younger, but I didn't know he was still having them."

Sam blinked at his father. "How did you know he was prone to them?" he asked.

Dad shrugged. "It was in his file," he said after a second.

"The police file you looked at today?"

"Yeah." Dad squeezed Sam's shoulders. "Dean's okay, Sam, he's just a little unsettled after what we learned today."

"What did you learn?"

Dad sighed. "Would you go grab me a beer, Sammy?"

"Sure," Sam said. He got up and got a beer out of the fridge and came back to sit down. Dad pulled him close again and Sam didn't pull away like he normally would. "Dad, what's up?"

"Sam, Dean was kidnapped from his family," Dad said, and Sam stared at him. "He escaped in Garrettville and got to help, but he was badly hurt, and no one could find out where he was held." Sam stared at his dad, wide-eyed. "Dean and I found that place today."

"But . . . he has a phobia of knives," Sam said. Dad nodded. "Is that why? Did the person who kidnapped him . . . I mean, what happened, Dad?"

"I don't know everything, Sammy," Dad said. "But yes, that's why Dean is phobic of knives. And you're not to ask him about it."

The bedroom door opened and Dean came out looking exhausted and gray. Sam felt a surge of anger at the monster who'd hurt him so badly, and he still didn't even know what had happened. Dean started towards the bathroom, but stopped, gazing at them in apparent confusion. "What's up?" he asked.

"Sam had a nightmare," Dad said, and Sam looked up at him in indignant shock.

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean asked, all concerned.

Sam looked at him. "I'm okay," he said, hideously embarrassed.

Dean nodded and went to the bathroom, then he shuffled back to bed. "Good night, squirt," he said before shutting the door again.

Dad squeezed Sam's shoulders and spoke quietly in his ear. "You're younger. Your pride will bounce back quicker."

Sam glanced up at him uncertainly. "He doesn't remember?"

"Nope," John said. "And he probably won't."

"And you're not going to tell him?"

"What would be the point, Sammy? All it would do is embarrass him and stress him out."

"I'd want to know."

"I'll keep that in mind should it ever come up. Now, you should get back to bed."

Sam nodded. He gave his dad a hug and went to bed. Dean was a motionless lump under the covers, and Sam hoped he was really okay. He knew his dad sometimes kept things from him that he didn't think Sam was ready to know, and he wondered if this was one of those times.


	13. Chapter 13

Dean rose late on the twenty-seventh. He glanced at the clock when he rolled to the edge of the bed and realized that it was early afternoon. He wondered why no one had woken him. Okay, actually he wondered why Sammy hadn't woken him. He knew why John hadn't. Because he'd freaked out beyond words in Garrettville, and he was being given the kid gloves treatment. He hated that. He also hated that he felt wrung out and exhausted after a full night's rest. Nonstop nightmares tended to do that to him.

He disentangled himself from the bedcovers, feeling like he'd gone several rounds with a very angry blanket. He dimly remembered that Sammy had also had a nightmare, and he hoped it hadn't been caused by hearing Dean struggle with his bedclothes. When he emerged from the bedroom, only John sat in the front room, reading the newspaper. He looked up, nodded, and went back to reading.

Okay, that wasn't part of the kid gloves treatment. He should have jumped up and demanded to know if Dean was all right, if he'd slept well, and offered him some kind of soothing breakfast. Dean went to the bathroom and took a shower to sluice all the sweat off his body. He realized when he got out that he hadn't brought clothes into the bathroom with him and wrapped a towel high up under his armpits to cross through the living room. Sammy still wasn't in view, and John didn't look up. Dean was relieved to find the bedroom empty, and he scrambled into clothes.

When he came out again, it was to find that John had gotten up and gone into the kitchen. He had a box of donuts open on the counter and was pouring a glass of milk. "Those for me?" he asked.

"Actually, yeah," John said. "Or at least some of them are. Sam likes the ones with maple on top."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Dean said, selecting a donut with chocolate frosting and multi-colored sprinkles. John handed him the glass of milk. "Where is Sammy?"

"At the library," John said. "I assigned him research on zombies. Just because real school is out doesn't mean hunter school is."

"Does that mean I have a research assignment coming up?" Dean asked.

"Actually, we need to talk," John said, leading the way to the dining room table.

"Talk?" Dean repeated. "About what?" Like he didn't already know.

"What do you think?"

"You want to know what made me freak out yesterday," Dean said, and the donut suddenly tasted like dust.

"I think it could be important information, Dean," John said. "I know nothing about this man who abducted you. Like what he wanted you for."

Dean shook his head. He'd spent most of the drive back from Garrettville trying to piece together an understanding of the flashes of memory that had come back to him in those moments in that warehouse. "I don't really know why he wanted me. I remember him talking, but all of it is really unclear now."

"What do you know?" John asked, and though his voice was gentle, his expression was implacable. He wanted to know – hell, he deserved to know. He was making such an effort to help Dean out that it seemed unfair for Dean to resist.

"I . . . when's Sammy coming back?"

"I told him to go grocery shopping after the library," John said. "So not for a couple of hours yet."

One possible excuse shot out of the water before he even attempted it. "He had yellow eyes," Dean said. "And it was the irises that were yellow, not the whites, and it wasn't all the time. Most of the time his eyes were brown."

John nodded slowly. "He was probably a demon," he said in a level voice. "What else was unusual about him?"

Dean blinked. He'd been expecting the usual denials of what he'd seen. "Um . . . he was super strong, like, lifting cars with his bare hands strong."

"Did you see him do that?"

"Not exactly," Dean said, shaking his head, not wanting to talk about what he _had_ seen. "And he could make me fly across the room by just gesturing at me, and if he looked at me a certain way, I couldn't move."

"Those are all things demons can do in their sleep," John said, and Dean gulped.

"Why would a demon want me?" he asked. "There's nothing special about me."

"He may simply have needed a child for some kind of spellwork," John suggested.

"That really creeps me out," Dean said, shivering. Then something occurred to him. "Wait, if that's the case, he probably just grabbed some other poor kid after I escaped," he said anxiously. "Does that mean I doomed some other kid to go through the same thing I went through, only more?"

John shrugged apologetically. "I honestly don't know," he said.

Dean took a deep breath to steady himself. "I had nightmares all night," he confessed. "I . . . I did remember stuff while we were there, but none of it . . . it's all a jumble."

"It may take some time for you to put it all together," John said. "Can you tell me how you got away?"

Dean closed his eyes and looked down at the table. "I . . . he left suddenly and was gone a long time. He had these things, these, long . . ." Dean clenched his teeth to hold back a panic attack. "They were like needles, only thicker. He'd stick them into me and . . ." Dean shook his head, unable to describe it. "Anyway, one of them was in reach." It had taken him ages and a lot of blood to reach it. "I used it to unlock the cuffs."

"And then?" John prompted.

"And then I found my way out of the building, chose a direction, and started walking," Dean said. "I had no idea where I was, I never had any idea." He looked down at the table. "I stopped telling the cops and everyone what I remembered because I heard people talking about psych evaluations and stuff, and I didn't want to wind up permanently in the loony bin." He shrugged. "I pushed it all away because I didn't dare talk about it, and I think I . . . I can't remember it much anymore."

John nodded. "That's not surprising."

"I wondered sometimes if I was crazy, but then I'd look . . ." He flushed, not wanting to talk about his skin. "And I'd know I wasn't."

"Why were you in the hospital so long?" John asked.

Crossing his arms uneasily, Dean sat back from the table. "A couple of reasons," he said. "I . . . I don't remember the exact word. Para something, I think. An '–itis.'"

"Peritonitis?" John asked, sounding alarmed.

"Yeah, I think so," Dean said. He could feel his emotions stirring beneath the surface and pushed them back. "There were internal injuries that weren't obvious," he went on, his voice going quieter. "And I guess they didn't pick up on the way he stuck me with those needle-things right away." Dean gulped and cleared his throat. "I wasn't really able to tell them much . . . not for a long time." He concealed the way his breathing was growing shallow. He didn't want to lose control in front of John again. "And the . . . cuts . . . they didn't close very well. They kept opening up, and the older ones started doing that, too." Dean's body started to shake, but he struggled to maintain his composure. "I think he was using something . . . they didn't have . . . to . . . to treat . . ."

_Dean watched in unending horror as the man dipped the thin blade again in the viscous, black fluid before returning to his side. He couldn't move, he could only whimper as the sharp edge bit into his skin. Ugly, dark words fell from the man's lips as he carved, and Dean almost felt them landing on his trembling body. A liquid drip against a metal surface began, reminding him that his spilled blood was once more being collected as . . ._

_The stuff burned as the man rubbed it into the open cuts. "Stop, please," Dean begged, his hands reaching to push the man away but coming short at the end of the chains. "Stop!"_

_"Don't you want them to heal, Dean?" the man asked, his voice rich with amusement. "If they don't, you'll bleed to death and then who . . ._

_Dean held very still so as not to disturb the position of the long piece of metal that impaled him through the abdomen. Any movement made him feel like he was dying. The man drizzled a greenish liquid down the metal and it seeped into Dean's flesh, deep into his body, following the . . ._

"Dean! Dean! You're safe!" Dean clung to the words that were pulling him out of the nightmare memory. "You're with friends, Dean. You're safe."

John was on the floor beside him, on his knees, his arms around Dean's shaking body. Dean's breath was coming in sharp gasps. He, too, was on the floor, a few feet away from the dining table. A glass was broken in front of him, and the chair he'd been sitting in lay on its back, milk pooling around its legs.

"You're safe, Dean," John said again, rocking Dean back and forth. "I won't let anything happen to you."

"And now you know why I don't have my driver's license yet," Dean said hollowly, feeling dreadful. Tiny phantom pains along his scars tickled his nerves and made him shiver.

John let out what sounded almost like a sob. "You're back with me," he said, sounding relieved, but he didn't release Dean or push him away. He continued to hold him tightly. "It will be okay, Dean," he murmured. "You'll be okay."

Dean knew he should pull away, knew he was showing himself weak and vulnerable, but he held onto John for dear life, terrified that if he let go, he'd sink back into horror. Gradually, his heartbeat slowed to something approaching normal, his breathing became more regular, and rationality reasserted itself. He let go his death grip on John's shirt and drew away from the older man, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to –"

"You have nothing to apologize for," John said.

"I broke a glass," Dean pointed out.

"I pushed you," John replied. "I knew this was a possibility, and I'm sorry that it happened, but it's not your fault."

Dean got to his feet and put a hand down for John, who took it with thanks. When John was on his feet, Dean walked into the kitchen and wet a handful of paper towels. His fault or not – and he personally thought it was his fault – it still needed to be cleaned up. He grabbed one of the plastic grocery bags that Sammy thriftily tucked away for use as garbage bags and went to pick up the mess.

John raised a hand as if to stop him, but held himself back, and Dean was grateful. Dealing with the physical consequences of his loss of control usually helped to steady Dean back into normalcy. John went and sat on the sofa, nearby but not hovering, while Dean wiped up the milk, returned the chair to its normal position and swept up the glass. When he was done, he threw away the garbage, put the broom and dustpan back in their corner against the wall and took a deep breath.

He walked over and sat down next to John, who stopped pretending to read the newspaper. "That's the other reason I was in the hospital so long," he said, his voice almost steady. "My flashbacks were unpredictable, and it took a while for me to steady down once all the treatments were done. I spent about a month in the psych ward before they were satisfied that I wouldn't explode at the slightest stress." He grimaced. "After yesterday, I may have . . ." He trailed off, thinking about the day before. He looked up. "I'm sorry I made you walk so far, John. You should have stopped . . ." Dean blinked. "You tried to stop me. John, I –"

John put his arm around Dean. "Hush, you have nothing to apologize for."

"How far did we walk yesterday?"

"A little more than ten miles," John replied. Dean's eyes widened and he started to speak, but John overrode him. "And I'd have walked twice as far to help you through that."

Dean didn't know what to say, but at that moment, the door opened. Sammy walked in with two bags from the grocery store. Dean pulled away from John and stood up. "Hey, Sammy."

"What's up?" Sammy asked, looking at both of them. He started towards them. "Is something wrong?"

"Not wrong," John said. "Dean and I were just talking."

It was moments like this that could be death on the friendship he and Sam had been developing. Sammy could easily get jealous of his father giving Dean this kind of attention.

"Dean, you okay?" Sammy asked, looking anxious.

Dean nodded. "I'm good," he said. Sammy kept staring at him, looking alarmed and disbelieving. Dean walked over and ruffled his hair. "Okay, I'm a little bit crappy at the moment, but I will be fine."

"We'll fix you."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "I hope you don't mean that in the spay and neuter sense."

Sam gave him an exasperated grimace and went into the kitchenette to put the groceries away. Dean glanced over at John, then hitched his jacket on and went outside. He needed some air. The door opened behind him. "Don't go far," John said. "Okay?"

Dean nodded. "I won't."

The door shut again and Dean tried to imagine how he would have reacted to any of his foster parents doing that. Ignoring Jake, there were Angela and David Mason, Jessie Tipton, Marjorie Adler . . . . If any of them had told him not to go far, he probably would have blown them off. He shook his head and went to sit down on the step. When John said it, he felt like he should stay close.

He felt such a connection to John and Sammy, more than he'd ever felt to anyone before. It almost scared him. What they thought really mattered to him. But the question he had right now was whether or not he was safe for Sammy to be around. He could get violent when he had his flashbacks, though he'd never actually hurt anyone. The problem was, most kids Sammy's age would run away from someone freaking out. Sammy would probably dive in and try to help. That could end badly.

He brooded on that for a long while, watching the town go by. He felt like utter crap, and he knew he had to look worse. Between the nightmares and that delightful series of flashbacks, he was exhausted and wrung out.

The sun was setting when the door opened behind him. Footsteps came across the walkway, and Dean looked up as Sammy settled down on the step beside him. "Dinner will be ready in about thirty minutes," he said. "It's baking now."

"Baking?"

"Yeah, it's a sort of casserole thing that Bobby taught me to make."

"Oh." They sat in silence for a few minutes. "Your dad send you out here?"

Sammy shook his head. "I figured I should let you know about dinner, and you looked kind of . . . I don't know." Sammy shrugged. Dean grimaced and looked down at the steps below his feet. "If you want to be alone, I can go away," Sammy said.

Dean shook his head. "I'm . . . I don't want you to go." He swallowed the lump in his throat, and Sammy stayed where he was. Dean contemplated the boy beside him. He was capable of offering comfort without being loud or pushy about it, which was kind of nice. He just worried that something would happen and he'd frighten Sammy, or hurt him accidentally by going spastic during a flashback or nightmare. Dean cleared his throat, and Sammy looked over at him anxiously. "Sammy, do you know what a flashback is?"

Sammy didn't answer immediately, and when he did, he said, "I'm assuming you don't mean the literary kind."

Dean scowled. "No, I mean the 'come unglued and freak out' kind," he said, his voice a little harsher than he meant it to be.

Sammy didn't seem to be alarmed by his tone. "Yeah, I know what those are, I think. Isn't it when a bad memory kind of takes over, and it's like reliving it for real?"

Dean nodded, his gut churning. "Yeah, exactly like that," he said.

"Why do you ask?"

"Because I get them sometimes, and I can . . . sometimes I freeze up when I have them, but sometimes I get really physical." He gulped. "Scary physical. I . . . if I start freaking out like that when you're around, I want you to stay back. I could hurt you without even knowing it, and I'd hate that."

Sammy tilted his head. "Does it happen a lot?" he asked.

Dean shrugged. "Hasn't for awhile, but we're looking into my past. That's bound to stir things up a little." Sammy didn't say anything right away, and Dean was afraid to look at him. He didn't know how Sammy would react to this confession of weakness. It was kind of pathetic, really.

"Did you have one today?" Sammy asked, and he sounded tentative.

Dean swallowed again because the lump didn't seem to be going away. "Yeah," he said in a barely audible voice.

"And you're not going to tell me what happened, are you?" Sammy asked. He didn't sound annoyed or disappointed. He sounded oddly matter of fact.

"No, I'm not," Dean said, glancing over to see how this would be received. Sammy was just looking at him calmly, and his expression didn't change. Dean took a deep breath. "But your dad knows some of it."

Sammy nodded. "I thought he was keeping something from me," he said. "Because I'm thirteen." He sighed. "My brother used to do that, too. Everyone wants to protect me, but I'm not stupid. I know bad things happen."

Dean put an arm around his shoulders. "Yeah, I know. But once you know something, you can't give it back. You know it forever, and even if you don't think about it, it sits in your head and . . ." He shrugged. "Maybe one day I'll tell you, but you don't need to know now. I just want you to stay away from me if I flip out, even if I look like I'm holding still."

"Why?"

"Because if you touch me, I could lash out without knowing who it was, because I won't see you."

Sammy shook his head. "But I want to be able to help," he protested. "If you flip out, you could hurt yourself accidentally, and I don't want to be cowering in a corner if something like that happens."

Dean looked down at Sammy soberly. "You won't be cowering," he said. "And it won't help me if I come out of it and find out I've knocked you out."

Sammy sat thoughtfully for a moment, then pursed his lips. Dean prepared for some earnest and totally impossible suggestion. God, this was awkward. "Okay, but I know it's a possibility now. I'm prepared. I could help keep you from hurting yourself or someone else."

Dean shook his head and bit his lip. Sammy wasn't going to like what he had to say. "You're not big enough or heavy enough to restrain me," he said, and Sam's brow knit. "You're plenty strong, Sammy, I know that, but I'm a lot bigger than you. If you tried to hold me back, I'd break loose and that could hurt you, and then I might run away." Sammy's eyes widened, as if he hadn't thought of that possibility. "I did that once in the hospital, and it wasn't good." The nurse who'd tried to restrain him had misjudged his strength, or so he'd been told. He hadn't hurt anyone, but they'd been afraid he would pull his stitches or fall down a flight of steps. "Anyway, it shouldn't get that bad, I haven't had one of those in years. Mostly I'm likely to just jerk away and hunch up."

The door opened. "Sam, the timer's making a hell of a racket in here."

"Oh!" Sam jumped up and went inside.

Dean followed at a slower pace, but John stayed holding the door open. "You two have a good talk?" he asked when Dean reached him.

"I told him what to do if I have flashbacks in front of him," Dean said.

John's brows knit. "What did you tell him?"

"Not to come near me," Dean replied.

John closed the door and seemed to consider this for a moment. "That's probably the best advice you could give him," he said.

"Maybe you'd better back me up," Dean suggested. "He kept arguing with me."

John nodded. "I'll have a talk with him later," he said, and Dean was relieved to be able to pass the responsibility on. He'd had his say, and if he had his way, he and Sammy wouldn't talk about that subject again. Somehow he doubted he'd be that lucky.

That night he had several unpleasant dreams, but nothing that quite rose to the level of nightmare, and he woke up feeling almost rested. It was a good thing, too, because John decided he needed a tutorial about the Impala. They spent the whole day on the car, Sammy keeping them plied with sandwiches and drinks. It was pure heady fun. John kept that engine clean enough to eat off of, and Dean could appreciate that. Sammy listened and hung around with them, but it was clear that he didn't share the passion both John and Dean did.

On Sunday, John decided they needed to go through Dean's stuff and make sure he had what he needed and didn't have too much. This entailed dragging out all of Dean's clothes and worldly possessions and spreading them out in the living room.

"Wow, Dean, you have a lot of clothes," Sammy observed, looking around.

"Yeah, I should probably get rid of some of it," Dean said.

"You're going to have to," John replied. "Everything we carry has to fit in the Impala. You'll need sturdy clothes, and you're still growing, so keep that in mind."

Dean stood up and started sorting through. When he came across a couple of things that were too small for him, he glanced over at where Sammy was examining his CD collection. The kid had his back to him, so Dean lobbed the shirts at him with careful precision. They landed on Sammy's head, and Sammy jumped, yanking them off his head and turning around to glare at him. Dean met the irate look with an innocent smile. "Try those on, Sammy. They don't fit me anymore, but they might work for you."

After Dean had winnowed down his wardrobe, John set Sammy to packing up the clothes Dean wasn't keeping so they could drop it off at the Catholic thrift store downtown. John looked at the remaining stuff. "Well, the CDs are no problem, you've got them stored pretty compactly already." Dean nodded and put the CD binder on the table. "The stereo is a little big, Dean. I don't think we'll be able to take it."

Dean looked longingly at his boombox, but then he shrugged. "I can get one of those players like I got Sammy for Christmas," he said, putting the stereo by the door.

"Anything knick-knacky needs to fit in your duffel with your clothes, okay?" John said, gesturing at the pile of accumulated crap that had lived on his dresser. Dean nodded. "And then there's this." John picked up the locked box. "What's in here, Dean?"

Dean grimaced. "My medical records and a few other things."

John looked down at it, apparently startled. "All your medical records?"

"The important stuff," Dean said. "Some of the stuff that went wrong . . . after . . . could recur, and I've had enough medical tests to last a lifetime, so I'd rather be able to hand someone a stack of papers than have to try and explain."

John nodded without a word and put the box on the table. Dean let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Reassured on that point, Dean went back to sorting his stupid trinkets. Most of them were tossable, but he put the little model Mustang on the table with the stuff he was keeping and caught Sammy's grin.

John took them out to the quarry after they'd dropped off Dean's discards and ran them through some hand to hand drills that had Dean sweating and swearing by the end. Sammy was breathing hard, but he wasn't nearly as out of breath as Dean.

"You're out of shape," Sammy said.

"Apparently," Dean gasped, flopping down on the ground, his cast thunking against a rock.

"You'll toughen up," John said.

Dean let out a gusty sigh. "No doubt, but . . . today . . . whoa."

John and Sammy laughed, and Dean just flopped his head on the ground and groaned.


	14. Chapter 14

The Social Services offices weren't open on the first of January, so they didn't get underway until late in the day on the second. Sam sat in the backseat with Dean and Dad in the front. He'd campaigned for everyone in the front seat, but Dad had rejected that idea flatly.

Dean let out a whoop when they crossed the Tennessee state line. "Good bye, Georgia!" he announced.

"Hello Tennessee," Sam said, sitting forward and leaning on the front seat.

"We'll be stopping in Murfreesboro," Dad said. "About another hour and a half."

"I'm just glad to be out of The Peach State," Dean said, stretching. "How many hours do you usually drive at a stretch?" he asked.

"Depends," Dad said. "But I'm tired. It was a long day, and I was just riding shotgun."

Dean nodded and rested his head back against the seat. Sam had stayed outside with the car while Dad and Dean had taken care of Dean's business. Jake had shown up to meet them in the parking lot so they could go into the office all together, and it had given Sam a fair amount of pleasure to watch the jerk walk on eggshells around his dad.

They pulled up outside of a motel in Murfreesboro that they'd stayed in before, and Sam leaned up between Dad and Dean again. "You want me to get the room, Dad?"

"I got it, tiger." Dad got out of the car and walked into the motel office.

Sam looked over at Dean. "We'll probably just have one room. You mind sharing?"

"Sure," Dean said. "You don't want to share with your dad?"

Sam shook his head. His dad tended to move a lot in the night unless the bed was really tiny. "You seem like a pretty quiet sleeper."

"You haven't seen a night terror."

"Yes, I –" Sam broke off, flushing, and Dean met his eyes in the mirror.

"What?"

"I . . . uh . . ." Sam bit his lip. "You had one a few nights ago, or at least that's what Dad called it."

"Why didn't either of you tell me?"

Sam shrugged. "Dad didn't want to stress you out."

Dean scowled. "Which night was it?" he asked.

"The night after your trip to Garrettville," Sam said, and Dean's scowl deepened. "Don't be mad, Dean. I think Dad just –"

"I'm not mad, Sammy," Dean said. "I'm just . . . I guess I'm stressed out, so your dad was right. It drives me nuts, though, not remembering."

"It's no big deal," Sam said. "It doesn't happen very often, does it?"

Dean shook his head. "That would be the first time in months," he said. "Jake would have told me. He'd bitch about it the morning after."

Sam shrugged. "No problem, then."

Dad came out with a key and drove them to the far end of the motel. "Second floor, boys, just take what you need."

Sam grabbed his smaller duffel, which just held enough for a night or two. Dean had one, too, Sam had explained it to him. Sometimes they stayed a while in a place, and then they needed to bring all their stuff in, but when they were just staying the night, it made more sense to leave most of it in the car.

Dean headed straight for the bathroom, and Sam dropped his bag on the floor next to the bed farthest from the door. By tradition, that was his. "Dean and I will be sharing," he said.

His father's eyebrows went up, but he just nodded and started getting changed for bed. Sam grabbed some cash and went out to hit the vending machines. When he got back, Dean was sitting on their bed in his boxers and t-shirt, and Dad was flipping through channels. Sam tossed Dad a bag of Doritos and a can of Coke, then stopped and stared at Dean. "I didn't even think about what you'd want," he said, aghast.

Dean shrugged. "It's no big deal, Sammy," he said.

Sam handed Dean the Coke and chips he'd gotten for himself and shook his head. "I'll go get you something. What do you want?"

"You don't need –"

"What do you want?" Sam asked again

"Sammy –"

Dad sighed. "Dean, just tell him what you want, because he won't stop until you do."

"A bag of Doritos would be great," Dean said, and Sam hurried out to get that for him. He felt like an idiot, forgetting that they had a third person, but he'd gone on habit. They watched a couple of Law & Order episodes on A&E, and then they went to sleep.

The next day's driving was delayed on the trek through Missouri by a semi accident not more than five cars ahead of them. Between wind and rain, a semi tipped over on a curve in the highway, catching two cars going the other way beneath it. Dad managed to avoid the mass pile-up that occurred as a result, but other cars weren't so lucky. All three of them got out of the car and started helping with the casualties. When the crisis was over and the police reports were filed, they were all three dirty, exhausted, and ready to get cleaned up. John drove them to the nearest motel.

"If you guys let me shower first, I'll run to that truck stop across the street and pick us up some dinner," Dean said as they walked into the room.

"Sounds good, Dean," Dad replied, and Sam nodded tiredly. "Don't bother with drinks, we'll get them from the vending machine."

Dean showered quickly and emerged, hair still dripping, to drag clean clothes on and trot across the street. Sam was prepared to let his father take the next shower, but John shoved him at the bathroom. "Go. Just be quick. I'm going to call Bobby and let him know we'll be another day."

Sam got cleaned off as quickly as he could, but his mind felt a little bent. He'd never seen anything quite like that before. He knew how to deal with one or two people hurt. When it was ten or fifteen, and no one seemed to know what to do, it was harder. He'd had to convince adults that he knew what he was doing, and that had gotten annoying.

He'd seen Dean and Dad helping other people, and he felt really proud of his little . . . family. Family worked. They'd stepped up to the plate and dealt with things.

Once he felt clean, he got out and dried off, getting dressed in his PJs. Not much point in getting really dressed. They weren't leaving till morning, and he wasn't likely to go any further than the vending machines. When he came out of the bathroom, his dad put a hand on his shoulder. "Good work, today, Sammy. Really good work."

Sam grinned up at him. "Thanks, Dad." He dug in his pants for his wallet and went out to the soda machine. It was downstairs next to the parking lot, and before he reached it, Sam was wishing he'd pulled his shoes on. He figured he'd buy a Coke for each of them even though Dad would probably have a beer. While he was flattening out a dollar, a man walked up to use the snack machine.

"Sam Winchester?" he said.

Sam looked up automatically, and he was just in time to see the man swing something towards his head. Sam ducked, but not far enough. Blinding pain shot through his head, and he lost consciousness.

* * *

John heard the phone ringing as he came out of the bathroom. He walked over to it, still scrubbing at his hair with a towel. "Hello?"

"John, this is Michael Purdue, do you remember me?"

John straightened, startled. "Yes, I do." He looked around the room. Dean wasn't back yet, apparently, and Sam must still be out getting the drinks.

"You killed my brother, John," Purdue said, and his voice was flat with anger.

John grimaced, wondering how Purdue had found him. "He was a werewolf," he said. He picked up the phone and walked to the window to see if he could spot either Sam or Dean coming back. Neither was in view. His heart began to beat a little faster. If Purdue knew they were at this motel, he must have something planned.

"I kept him contained, you bastard!" Purdue growled.

John shook his head. "I caught him mauling a nine-year-old girl," he said.

"So he got out once!" Purdue retorted angrily. "He didn't deserve to die. He didn't even know he was doing it!"

"He would have gotten out again," John replied calmly. "It's impossible to contain a werewolf for long. I'm sorry. I had no choice."

"You're going to pay," Purdue said, his voice gone flat. "You don't have a brother, but you have a son."

John felt the blood drain from his face. "What are you talking about?" he demanded.

"I'd rather kill you than this fine boy I grabbed, but you'll have to be quick."

John's hand clenched the phone, his gut going cold. "Where are you?"

"Come around behind the motel, there's a stand of trees back here. If you want to save your boy's life, don't bring any weapons."

John dropped the phone and charged out of the room. He didn't need any weapons to take this bastard down.

When he got to the bottom of the stairs, he saw a white bag carelessly tossed aside, the styrofoam cartons scattered and fallen open to reveal cheeseburgers and fries. Next to those was Sammy's wallet. John breath caught in his throat. Which son did the bastard have?

He took off running around the building and into the stand of trees. It was thick with underbrush and leaves. He slowed as he entered, but he was still going too fast for silence. As he approached what looked like a small glade, he slowed further.

A voice spoke from within. "I see you, John. Come in nice and slow."

John took a deep breath to control his rampaging anger and walked into the clearing, his hands held visible to reassure Purdue that he'd come unarmed.

* * *

Dean made his way as quietly as he could among the trees. He'd wondered what was going on when he saw the man go around behind the motel with an odd-shaped burden. Then he'd seen Sammy's prized new wallet lying on the ground and put one fact with the other to come up with a very ugly picture. His heart had leapt into his throat at the thought of Sammy being grabbed by someone or something. The trouble was, he didn't know whether to hurry or to go slow. He didn't want to tip the kidnapper into drastic action, but he didn't want to be too late to stop him either.

His heart beating rapidly, he'd eased into the woodland, and then he started to hear the bastard talk. Sammy lay limp on the ground, and the bastard was talking to John on his cellular phone about how John had killed someone. He barely listened. He wasn't sure it mattered much right now. Sammy was in danger, and that was all he gave a damn about. He was afraid that if he went into the clearing in front of the guy, he'd startle him into killing Sammy ahead of schedule. He needed to get behind him without alerting the guy to his presence. Then John came crashing through the woods, and Dean took advantage of the noise to hurry a little faster.

He eased up to the edge of the trees and froze, his gut twisting. The man held a knife up against Sammy's throat.

* * *

John stared in horror at the knife Purdue held in his right hand, poised above the jugular vein at the side of Sam's neck. Where was Dean? "I'm here, Purdue," John said. "Let Sam go."

Purdue looked at him balefully. "You know, I was there when you killed my brother."

John nodded with impatience. He remembered the way the elder Purdue had cradled the younger in his dying moments, but he wanted his son out from under that knife. "You said you'd let him go," John reminded him. It was at that moment that he saw Dean in the edge of the trees, just behind Purdue and to his left. He looked frozen, petrified, and John realized that his phobia was preventing him from approaching any closer.

Purdue's eyes caught him again, full of hatred and vengeance. "I saw you shoot him, I had to watch him die. I think you should get to watch, too." He focused down on Sam, and John realized that the promise to free his son in exchange for him had been a ruse. He was ten feet away. He was going to be too late.

* * *

Dean saw the bastard's back muscles tense up and knew that it was now or never. He focused on the man and not the knife and launched himself towards him, grabbing for the right wrist and jerking it up and away from Sammy's throat.

The bastard turned as Dean grabbed him, and their momentum carried them both to the ground. Dean landed across him at full length, his hand still around the man's right wrist. The blade of the knife glittered red in the westering sun, and Dean's eyes were drawn to it. He struggled to maintain control, but now that Sammy was no longer threatened, the sight of the blade froze Dean's mind. When the guy struggled under Dean's weight, the knife moved, and he felt himself falling to the side. Then he was lost to evil memories.


	15. Chapter 15

John saw Dean leap into action, astonished that he could do so against the entrenched fear his experiences had inculcated in him. He dragged the knife away from Sammy's throat and tackled Purdue to the ground. Sam didn't move, but John couldn't address that right now. He took off across the clearing, towards where his son was trying to pin the larger man down. Abruptly, Dean seemed almost to withdraw. He fell sideways, away from Sam.

Purdue rolled up and raised his knife, this time over Dean. John grabbed him and jerked him off Dean, forcing him to release the knife. He slammed the man to the ground, holding him there. "I have two sons, you bastard!" he snarled. "Two!"

Purdue stared up at him in fury and rage. "You have to pay for what you've done!"

"What, for saving the lives of whatever innocents Jim would have killed the next time he got away?" John demanded. "And for that, you were going to make Dean witness his younger brother's death?"

"He wasn't bad!" Purdue protested, grief mixing with anger in his expression. "He was a good guy. He didn't deserve that."

"No, he didn't," John said, and Purdue glowered at him. "But I didn't do it to him. The monster that bit him did it. I just ended it."

"He was my brother!" Purdue moaned.

"And how would he have felt about killing that child?" John asked. Purdue closed his eyes, and John thought maybe he was safe to let him up. He sat up on his knees, cursing the pain in his joints. "Now –"

Purdue started scrabbling for the blade, and John snapped his neck. It was a crying shame, but the idiot hadn't given him much choice. He turned and found Sam with his arms around Dean, who was sitting hunched up with his knees against his chest, eyes fixed on some unknowable vista. "What's wrong with him, Dad?" Sam asked desperately.

"I think he's having a flashback," John said. He eased Sam away from Dean and scooped the larger boy into his arms, praying that he wouldn't panic and mangle them both. The last time he'd carried his elder son, he'd been both lighter and less leggy. It was awkward, but he got him into a solid hold and nodded to his younger son. "Let's go, Sammy. We need to get everything out of the motel room and into the car."

Sammy nodded. John noticed that he had no shoes on and hoped he wouldn't find a piece of glass or a rusty nail. Sammy ran ahead to hold the door open when they reached the motel, and John put Dean down on the nearest bed. He and Sam packed everything up post haste. While they were doing that, Dean's posture relaxed. He wound up on his side on the bed, dry sobs racking his frame.

John sat down next to him. "Dean, we have to go. Can you get up?"

Dean looked up at him, then his eyes shot to Sammy. "You're okay," he murmured, and Sam rubbed the bump on his head with a grimace.

John put a hand on Dean's back. "You're both okay, but we have to go. Now."

Dean nodded and got to his feet, a little shaky. He picked up his bag and John's. "I dropped dinner," he said abstractedly.

"We'll find a diner further along the road," John said. "Come on, boys."

Sam's wallet was still on the ground by the vending machines, so they picked it up on the way to the car. John's suggestion that both boys crawl into the backseat together was adopted without argument, and they were on their way within minutes. John glanced back in the rearview and saw that Sam had pulled the blanket they kept on the floor in the backseat up and had tucked it around the two of them. John hoped they'd fall asleep. A missed dinner wouldn't hurt any of them, and he was tempted to drive straight through to Bobby's.

* * *

Dean woke up aware of a grinding hunger in his gut and a blinding headache. He was leaning against the rear door of the car with his arm around Sammy who was curled up on his other side. "John?" he said, his voice feeling hoarse from disuse.

"You boys awake?"

"I am," Dean said. "Sammy's still out."

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm starving."

"There's a truck stop in about five miles. I'll stop there."

Dean nodded and started trying to straighten out his body without waking Sammy up.

"What's going on?" Sammy slurred.

"We're getting food," Dean said.

"Awesome," Sammy muttered, and he struggled upright.

Dean felt almost human when they reached the restaurant, and he stared at the back of the seat in front of him. "What happened to that jerk?" he asked.

John turned in the seat and looked at him earnestly. "He's dead," he said, and Dean blinked at him. "I had to, Dean. He wasn't going to stop."

"Duh!" Dean said. "He tried to kill Sammy."

"He what?" Sammy exclaimed.

"He tried to kill you," Dean said, shuddering. "With a . . . with a knife."

Sammy's eyes were huge. "What happened?"

"Dean saved your life," John said, and Dean flushed. "Then I saved Dean's, and we all left."

"And now it's time for waffles," Dean said hopefully. He could tell that he was going to have a freak out later about the dead guy, but for now, all he cared about was filling the hole in his gut.

Waffles and bacon and sausage and scrambled eggs and cinnamon apples hit the spot. "How far are we now?" he asked once he'd waded his way through most of his order.

"About three hours," John said. "We should roll in there around 5 a.m."

"You sure we shouldn't stop?" Dean said, knitting his brows. "You're looking awful tired."

John shook his head. "I'll be fine, Dean. I can sleep there."

Dean grimaced, but he wasn't going to kick up a fuss, not when John had already gone to so much trouble over him. They finished up their meal and paid, then headed back out to the car. John ordered a giant coffee for the road, and Dean started to climb into the front seat.

John shook his head. "No, you boys get in the back. If you can get any more sleep, you ought to. It was a rough day."

Dean wanted to point out that John had gotten the worst of it, so far as he could see, but he just climbed into the backseat with Sammy. He tried to stay awake, but the next thing he knew, he was waking up again. His watch said it was about 4:30, and Sammy was sitting in the front seat. Dean wondered if John had stopped or if Sammy had climbed over. "We almost there?" he asked thickly.

"Another ten minutes or so."

John was right on the money. At 4:43 they pulled into what looked like a junkyard. The sign over the entrance read, "Singer Salvage."

"He lives in a junkyard?" Dean asked. He'd been picturing some squinty-eyed academic from what Sammy had told him.

"He runs a tow truck operation as his main job, theoretically," John said. He drove through the busted up cars and pulled up in front of a faded farmhouse. They all got out, and Sammy went pelting up to the door. Apparently it was locked, because Sammy started digging in his pocket. John stayed outside, stretching, while Sammy went in. Dean stood by the car, trying to let himself unkink from the hours of sitting.

Sammy came out. "He's still in bed, I think," he said, walking over. "He wasn't expecting us till this afternoon, right?"

John nodded. "Why don't you show Dean over the place." Sam looked towards the farmhouse. "The yard, not the house, Sam – and I'll go get some sleep."

Sammy nodded and gestured with his head. "Let's see what Uncle Bobby's got out here," he said.

"Sure," Dean said, and he followed the kid into what amounted to an automobile graveyard. Fascinating, useful, but kind of sad.

* * *

John walked into the house. As he'd expected, Sam's earlier entrance had awoken Bobby. The other hunter was on his way downstairs with a knife in one hand and a flask in the other. "Good morning," John said, grinning at him in his boxer shorts, t-shirt and tatty robe. "Nice slippers," he added, glancing down at the dog-chewed duck boots.

Bobby blinked at him. "You're early," he said.

John shrugged. "Something came up at the motel that necessitated a quick departure," he explained. "Once we were on the move again, I just decided to make the push to get here."

"Where's Sam?"

"He's showing Dean around the yard," John said, glancing out the window. Neither boy was in sight. "I thought we ought to talk before you meet him. I know you're a little concerned."

Bobby nodded, pursing his lips. "That's putting it mildly. Look, John, while you and that boy were out at Garrettville doing whatever it was, Sam called me. I swear, John, he's getting attached in a way that's not altogether healthy." John started to respond, but Bobby shook his head and held up his hand. "Maybe you're too close to see it, but you should have heard him going on about how cool this Dean character is, and how it was the best Christmas ever." Bobby shook his head. "Seriously, John, if this kid is as good with cars as Sam says he is, maybe you should leave him here with me. I can train him up right, and Sam will get to see him, but it's not healthy for either of them if he tries to treat this Dean like he's your Dean."

John nodded slowly, aware that Bobby had good reason to be concerned. "It's not a problem, Bobby."

Bobby glared at him, spreading his hands in exasperation. "John, aren't you listening?"

"I am, and I know that the minute you see him, you'll understand."

Bobby blinked at him. "What are you talking about?" he asked as if getting newly worried.

John shrugged. "Just . . . when you meet him, don't say anything, okay? Give it a little time." He was misleading Bobby, he knew it, but if he told him the truth, Bobby would be convinced that he'd flipped his lid. It was going to take showing Dean to him, and John had wanted to get this little conversation out of the way first.

Bobby's misgivings showed plainly on his face, but he nodded grudgingly. "I'll give it . . ." He trailed off, his eyes caught by something. John turned and saw that he was staring out one of the side windows. Dean was standing next to an engine, pointing, and talking earnestly to Sam. Bobby walked slowly towards the window, eyes fixed on the image. They were a good twenty feet away and very focused on what they were doing, but John didn't want them to see the way Bobby was staring.

"Bobby?"

"My God," Bobby breathed. "It can't be. It just can't be."

"Stop staring, or one of them will be bound to notice."

"John . . ." Bobby looked at him. "It can't be."

"I know, but it is," John said. "Sammy found him."


	16. Chapter 16

To say that he was stunned was an understatement. Bobby turned his head to look at the boy next to Sam again and gulped. "Have you checked him out?"

"What kind of an idiot do you take me for?" John demanded. "I laced the milk with holy water, he handles silver with no problems, and . . ." He swallowed, his eyes going alarmingly misty. "The other day he helped load salt rounds."

"John, this doesn't just happen!" Bobby protested. "Long lost kids do not suddenly appear in PE class and introduce themselves."

"Actually, it does happen," John said. "It's happened more than once in the last few years, but that's not what's happened here in any case."

"Come again?" Bobby asked skeptically.

"Dean still doesn't know and I'm not sure whether Sam's figured it out."

"What do you mean, he doesn't know?"

"Have you identified any of those glyphs yet?" John asked

Bobby blinked at the non sequitur. "I'm not done talking about Dean," Bobby said, prepared to argue them back to the real issue.

"And I haven't changed the subject," John replied solemnly.

It took a moment for Bobby to process what John was saying to him. He glanced out the window again, but the boys had moved on. "John, are you saying what I think you're saying?" he asked in a low voice, looking back at John's face. "Those things are carved on . . . on Dean?"

John nodded, his expression grim. Bobby took his hat off and rubbed his head, appalled. The image of glyphs carved into human skin was horrifying to begin with, the thought that it was done to a boy he remembered playing in this very room made it that much worse. John was still talking, and Bobby pulled his mind away from his horror to pay attention. "I think one of them may be inhibiting his memory, and I wouldn't be surprised if one of them prevents scrying from being successful."

"Have you actually seen them?"

Shuddering, John shook his head. "I've seen the evidence photographs that were taken when he was twelve, but he doesn't undress in front of us. He always changes in the bathroom."

"Son of a gun," Bobby said. When he was twelve? They were carved on him when he was twelve? Controlling a shudder of his own, he gestured with his head towards the kitchen, and they both headed in there. Opening the fridge, he pulled out two beers, handing one to John before sitting down at the table. John sat catty-corner to him. "What's his history, or how much do you know?" Bobby asked.

John took a long swig of the beer, and Bobby could see that he was a deeply shaken man under that mask he habitually wore. "He escaped from a 'yellow-eyed man,' as he described him in the police report, in the wee hours of the morning on the 19th of May in 1991. He was found by a couple in their front yard, collapsed and bleeding. He didn't remember anything more than his first name, his age and the month of his birth. After six months in the hospital –"

"Six months?" Bobby exclaimed.

"I don't have all the details, but he apparently had peritonitis, and the wounds didn't close very well." John's jaw worked as if he was suppressing nausea. "He hasn't gone into detail, but I've seen three flashbacks already." Bobby took a deep swallow of beer and shook his head. "One of them was momentary, maybe two seconds, but the others were intense, several minutes long, and left him shaken for hours afterwards. He says they were tapering off, but recent events and an increase in stress were bound to have an effect."

"Recent events?" Bobby asked. "Does this have something to do with why you got here about seven hours early?"

"In small part," John said. "Actually, I don't know what all effect that's going to have on him." He glowered at his beer. "You remember the werewolf I killed in Idaho a year or so back? The one whose brother had been keeping him locked up?"

"The reason you missed Christmas last year, yeah," Bobby said, and John shrugged.

"The brother caught up with us, and he decided he was going to make me pay by killing Sammy in front of me."

"How far'd he get?"

"He knocked Sam out and put a knife to his throat. If Dean hadn't overcome his phobia just long enough to stop him, Sam would probably be dead."

"God," Bobby murmured, staring at the table. Then he looked up. "What phobia?"

John grimaced. "Knives. He got Purdue away from Sam, then collapsed in a flashback. I had to drag Purdue off him, or he'd be dead." John looked like he was riding the ragged edge. "I killed him, Bobby. I had to. He wasn't stopping."

Bobby shook his head. He deplored unnecessary killing, but if the man was trying to kill both boys, what else could a body do? "I get that," he said.

John snorted. "You know, he was the first one I told. The first person I uttered the words aloud to. I have two sons."

"Well, that explains a hell of a lot," Bobby said. "No wonder Sammy connected to him right off. It was already there."

"Sam asked, essentially, if we could keep him, like a puppy. That was before I saw him. All I knew was that Sam had made a friend that he wanted to take hunting."

"And you were going to say no," Bobby predicted.

"Hell yes, I was going to say no." John shook his head. "When I saw him, you could have knocked me over with a feather. Sam doesn't have all the pieces of the puzzle, and Dean told him it was impossible, so he's accepted that. Dean . . . I don't know."

"I haven't found the glyphs, John, but everything I'm finding suggests to me that they're pretty damned old. Scary old, in fact."

"We always thought that what took him was a demon," John said.

Bobby raised his eyebrows. "As I recall, I had to do some pretty fast talking to convince you that demons were even real."

John shrugged. "Regardless, he described him as having brown eyes most of the time, but sometimes they'd turn yellow, the irises, not the whites. He was super strong and he could throw Dean around the room by gesturing."

"Well, that sure as hell sounds like a demon," Bobby said. "But John, that means they had him for two months."

John nodded. "Just about. He was grabbed on March 22nd. Now, I know where he was held in Garrettville, that's one of the recent events I was talking about. We went to visit the people who found him, and he saw something he recognized and insisted – with typical Winchester/Campbell stubbornness – that we had to go look right then. I'll have to go back and get pictures of the walls. No one's really cleaned the place up, so maybe you can figure something out about the glyphs we saw there."

"Do you think that was the only place he was held?"

"No. Dean said something about the guy always drawing that glyph, wherever they went, which sort of implies more than one previous stop to my mind." Bobby nodded. "Do you know anything about a demon with yellow eyes? I've never heard of such a thing, but I know that not all demons have the black eyes. Crossroads demons flash red, from what I hear tell."

"They do," Bobby said thoughtfully. "And I've read that in really old demons, the eyes go white instead of black, but yellow . . ." He shook his head. Something was teasing at the back of his mind, but he didn't have enough to go on. "I'll have to consult a couple of books."

"By all means. But don't say anything to Dean about his being my son, okay? I haven't told him because I don't want him to freak out and run. He's already had 'the talk' with me."

"'The talk?" Bobby repeated. He only knew one referent for that, and he didn't think Dean had felt the need to explain the birds and bees to John.

"The 'I'm not your son, so don't expect me to act like him' talk. He was worried about it before you were."

Bobby's brows knit. "You mean he knows you have a missing son named Dean and he hasn't put it together?"

"Bobby, I think he's got spells blocking his memory," John said impatiently.

"And his thinking," Bobby pointed out, and John glared at him. "I mean, he was found when he was twelve, your son went missing when he was twelve. The same year, all of it."

"I haven't put it that bluntly, Bobby. For all I know there's something in those spells that will make him flip out if we say something. I didn't even tell you about the brands because I couldn't make out the shapes in the photos."

"Brands?" Bobby bit back on some nausea of his own. "He's got brands?"

"Two of them, one right here." He gestured at his sternum. "And one in the small of his back. All you could see on the photographs was blisters and swelling, but it was pretty obvious that they had specific shapes."

Bobby stood up and walked over to the kitchen window. He could see them . . . the boys . . . John's boys . . . out in the middle of the yard. "My God, John, that boy's been through hell."

"And he's still the same Dean, if you can believe it," John said, awe in his voice. Bobby turned and looked at him. "He is extraordinarily protective of Sammy. First thing he did, practically, was sit me down and read me the riot act for leaving Sam alone for so long."

"Did he really?" Bobby snorted, and crossed his arms, leaning against the counter. "That's different." John tilted his head. "Dean never stood up to you, never once."

"He was twelve!" John exclaimed.

"Sammy stood up to you all the time," Bobby replied.

"That's different," John said.

"How so?"

"There's a difference between standing up to someone and being an argumentative little brat."

Bobby nodded. "And Sammy was that."

John's eyes narrowed briefly, but then he shrugged, accepting the truth of the statement and Bobby's right to say it. "Not so much anymore."

"Yeah, I know," Bobby said with a grimace. "He's changed a lot since Dean . . . since 1991."

John gave him a faintly amused look. "You were about to say since Dean died, weren't you?"

Bobby let out a deep sigh, shaking his head. "It's a big thing to adjust to."

"I'd rather adjust to this than the other," John said.

Bobby nodded, acknowledging the point. "We're going to have to find a way to tell him, you know, whatever it takes," he said.

"Why?"

"Because if you're going to take him with you, out there, other hunters know about Dean being missing, other hunters have his picture. Someone's going to make a connection, and they'll say something, tact not being big in this little group of ours."

"It's not like I'm planning on taking him to the Roadhouse."

"You're not?" Bobby stared at him. "John, you have to show him to Ellen. You can't keep this from her, not with all the work she did helping you try to find him."

"I'm not planning on keeping this from anyone," John protested. "I just need a little time. And what makes you think I'm taking them anywhere till we've got this figured out?"

Bobby hadn't figured on him being that smart. "Glad to hear it," he said. "Now –" The front door opened, and Bobby grinned at the sound it made. It was Sam's idea of stealthy. "We're back here!" he called out.

Sam came in quickly, Dean following behind him, looking around at the house. "Bobby, this is Dean Hunter. Dean, this is Bobby."

Dean Hunter. Bobby had to control a mildly hysterical laugh, but he managed it. He nodded. "Nice to meet you, Dean," he said.

Dean was giving him a puzzled look, up and down. "Sam, I thought you said he was a scholar," he said in a voice that was meant to be quiet but missed by a hair.

"He is."

Still in that low voice, Dean replied, "Well, he looks like drunk truck driver."

Bobby blinked at him. "On one beer? Please."

"At five in the morning?" Dean asked. "You didn't do this kind of thing when Sammy was staying with you, did you?"

"Dean!" Sam exclaimed. "Bobby, he's just –"

"Protective," Bobby finished for him. "I can't fault that. No sir, I did not. This was occasioned by some news I just got."

Sam's eyes clouded and Dean's brows drew together. Sam took a step towards him. "Everything okay, Bobby?" he asked anxiously.

"Everything's just fine, Sam, don't you worry."

Dean was looking at John. "Sir, don't you think it's time for you to get some sleep?" he asked. "You've been up all night, and after all the excitement yesterday –"

"Yes, Dean, you're right," John said, giving Bobby a glance that he had no trouble reading. So Dean was protective of John, too. Interesting. Or was that just an extension of his protectiveness towards Sam? "You boys stay out of trouble."

"Dad," Sam grumped, giving him an embarrassed look.

"Dean?" John said, and he shot Bobby a look that told him to distract Sam, which he did by suggesting to Sam that they start fixing breakfast.

"We already had breakfast," Sam said. "About three hours ago."

"Well, if I know you, you'll be hungry the minute you smell the eggs."

A few minute later, Dean came back into the kitchen, and he gave Bobby a sort of troubled look. Bobby wondered what John had said to him. They all sat down to a breakfast of eggs, bacon and toast, and Dean ate the lion's share of the food. Hollow arm and leg, Bobby diagnosed. About to have a growth spurt, no doubt.

The boys started joshing with each other, and after a very few minutes, Bobby had to wonder how John had kept it together for this long. Anyone who saw the pair of them together would guess they were best friends at the very least. Bobby just ate placidly, thanking God for his dumb hick face and the fact that Dean didn't know him well enough to read him. Sam did, but he was so focused on Dean that he saw little else. It wasn't exactly surprising, given the wreck he'd been after his brother's disappearance.

The inevitable happened. Sam got up to go to the bathroom, leaving Bobby alone with a boy he both knew and didn't know. An awkward silence fell, finally broken by Dean. "Sorry I got on your case about the beer," he said. "I've just known too many kids who's parents were on the sauce a little too early and often, if you get my drift."

Bobby nodded. "I understand, and I appreciate the apology."

"John says I can trust you, and so does Sammy, and obviously John trusts you or he wouldn't have left Sammy here for almost three years." Dean was gazing intently at him, and Bobby wondered what was coming next. "And he just told me that you know about the . . . he calls them glyphs."

Bobby nodded again, enlightened. "He faxed sketches of their shapes to me, hoping I'd be able to locate them and figure out what they mean."

"You think they mean something?" Dean asked, his voice calm but his eyes fathomless with unexpressed emotion.

"I'm sure they do," Bobby said. "It's –" He heard Sam in the hallway, and he could tell that Dean did, too, from the way his eyes widened with alarm. Bobby continued without a break, simply changing what he was saying. "It's the carburetor, I think, but I just don't have time right now to work on it. I could sell it if it was fixed."

Dean caught the line like a pro. "I'd love to help out," he said.

"What is it?" Sam asked. "You got a lot of heavy research?"

"Something like that," Bobby said, standing up. "Let me show you the car."

"Sammy, you want to help?" Dean asked.

"Sure," Sam said with his eyes shining.

He left the boys with the car and the tools and went into his library to sift through the books again. Had Dean actually believed that the demon had tortured him for the sheer pleasure of it? Not like that was beyond the scope of a demon, but cutting shapes into a person's skin – that had to have a purpose. Yellow eyes . . .

He was soon elbows deep in dusty books, flipping through page after page of text, skimming what he could, laboriously translating what he had to, until he felt a presence at his side. He'd almost forgotten Sam's habit of turning up there and waiting till Bobby noticed him. "Yes, Sam?" he asked, turning towards him.

"Dean says the alternator is shot, and wants to know if he can raid the heaps for one that's in better shape," Sam said.

"Sure." Bobby looked at Sam. "There's something else, isn't there?"

Sam looked around then leaned closer. "Bobby, I know you're going to say I'm nuts, but I think Dean is . . . I think he's really Dean. My brother Dean."

Bobby blinked at him. "Sam –"

"I know it sounds crazy, but . . . it just makes so much sense. He says it's impossible, but . . . I can't help thinking . . ."

"You're right, Sam," Bobby said.

"I mean, there's the way he keeps remembering stuff he couldn't know, and his age is right, and he just . . . he feels like Dean."

Bobby put his hands on Sam's shoulders and shook him lightly to get his attention. "Sam, you're right. He is Dean."

Sam's brow drew together. "You know? But Dad doesn't seem to know."

"Your dad knew it the minute he saw him," Bobby said. "He just hasn't said anything."

"Why not?"

"Why haven't you said anything?"

Sam stared at Bobby with a thoughtful look on his face, then understanding dawned. "He doesn't want to freak him out."

"He's afraid he'll bolt, so keep it under your hat." Sam glanced up at the ball cap on Bobby's head, and Bobby rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean. Run along, or he'll wonder where you are."

Sam nodded and ran off. Bobby leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. One of these days, this family was going to be the death of him.

* * *


	17. Chapter 17

John came down the stairs and trudged into the kitchen. He'd dreamed of fire, blood and death, and it wasn't the first time. Thinking too much or too concretely about what had happened to Dean always called up that kind of dream. Bobby wasn't in the kitchen, but he was in the library.

"You finally awake?" he asked in his gravelly voice. John sort of waved in his direction, not feeling up to much in the way of speech. Bobby came into the kitchen and pulled out sandwich makings while John poured himself a cup of coffee. "Sammy's picked up on more than you gave him credit for," Bobby said, stepping back from the bread and bologna to let John fix his own food.

Now that he'd had a swallow of caffeine, John felt more able to communicate. "What do you mean?"

"Sam told me he thought Dean was his brother Dean while you were in bed."

John nearly spewed a mouthful of hot coffee. He got it down and stared at Bobby. "Are you serious?"

"He thought you didn't know, so he wasn't sure what to do. He was afraid I'd think he was crazy."

"Where are they?" John asked, looking out the windows he could see from this spot.

"I set Dean to fixing a Camaro that I thought only needed a little work to make it saleable. He seems to have found four or five extra things wrong with it, so he's in seventh heaven."

John snorted. "That's my boy. We went over the Impala last week, and he noticed a couple of things I'd missed. She's running better than ever." Bobby nodded, his eyes straying towards the library. "You find anything?" John asked, his pulse quickening.

"Not yet," Bobby said sourly. "And since it's pretty clear that no one wants Sam to know about these marks on Dean's hide, I guess I can't borrow my best research assistant."

John shook his head. "It's the one thing Dean insisted on when he showed me those pictures – that Sammy didn't need to know. He knows enough not to set Dean's phobias off, but not as much detail as he'd like." John grimaced. "Hell, I still don't know any real detail. Dean just can't talk about it. The last time he told me anything substantive triggered the first long flashback, and that was terrifying."

"He's going to have to get past those," Bobby said. "If having a knife pointed at him makes him freeze up, he's not going to last long in this line of work."

John nodded, thankful to finally have someone he could talk to about this. "It wasn't pointed at him when he froze, Bobby," he said, and Bobby's eyes widened. "It was in Purdue's hand, with Dean's hand around that wrist, pinning to the ground."

"That's still a pretty intense situation," Bobby said.

"Yeah, but Dean had the guy pinned; he knew I was there." John shook his head, trying to find the words to express what he wanted to say. "Hell, Bobby, he said he had a meltdown just watching _Halloween_ , one that almost sent him to the psych ward."

"So it's bigger than just a knife as a direct threat to himself," Bobby said, eyes distant.

"I think the only thing that got him moving last night was the threat to Sam. Literally, the moment Sam was out of danger, Dean froze."

Bobby pursed his lips, leaning towards John across the table. "That's going to be a tough thing to break past if it's that intense. I mean, you and I both know a thing or two about flashbacks." Between Viet Nam and their wives, both of them had experience aplenty. "Still . . ." Bobby shook his head. "What that kid must have gone through to be reacting this strongly five years later."

"You should have seen –" John heard footsteps in the hall, and he looked up.

"Well, if you folks are going to be staying awhile, I guess we'd better get the boys enrolled at Jackson High," Bobby said just as the boys came into the room. They were both dirty, Dean had black smears and smudges on his cast, but Dean had an air of accomplishment about him. "Sam, I'm sure your old friends will be glad to see you."

"Staying?" Dean said. "I thought we were going on to Fresno."

"We will," John said. "I just want to give Bobby a little time to work on the stuff we talked about earlier."

Dean's eyes widened, and John felt like an insensitive jackass when his expression closed down and went blank. "Oh. Right."

"What stuff?" Sam asked.

"Never you mind, squirt," Dean said instantly, but his expression was still unnervingly blank.

Sam looked at all three of them, and his brow furrowed. Bobby intervened before Sam could say anything. "Sam, why don't you show Dean where we get cleaned up."

Sam flushed. "Sorry, Bobby, I guess we should have come in through the mud room."

Bobby shrugged. "Don't matter, that's just where the soap is," he said. "Go on, the both of you. Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes."

When they were out of earshot, John turned to Bobby. "Is the panic room still set up for Sam?"

"Sort of. I've put a few more things in there that he wouldn't have needed, but I left that double bed we pulled out of the upstairs bedroom. I've been meaning to convert it back, but I just haven't felt any rush about it."

"Good. Let's put them both down there, if that's all right with you."

Bobby shrugged. John knew Bobby had never really understood his insistence on keeping Sam in as safe a location as possible, but Bobby didn't have the experience of thing after thing coming after him. Now, with Dean back, it felt like the danger had doubled. While they were on the road, it was less of a problem. They were on the move, they didn't stay anywhere for long, it negated the danger somewhat. Bobby's place had an air of home about it for Sam, and John didn't want to tempt fate any more than he had to.

"It's only got the one bed," Bobby said.

"I doubt they'll care," John replied with a snort. "At least not at the moment."

Bobby stood up and checked the oven, and John smelled meatloaf. His bologna sandwich suddenly seemed very paltry as a meal. The boys came in at just that moment and John was amused to see the famished looks they shot at Bobby. Boys were boys were boys. Every boy John had ever known was hungry from morning to night, barring outside influences. And Dean's appetite never seemed to waver much.

"Now that your hands are clean, why don't you go get changed?" John suggested. "Bring your stuff in from the car and take it down to your old room, Sam. Dean will be staying down there with you."

Sam gave him a startled look, but he nodded without question, taking the keys from John and grabbing Dean by the arm. "Come on, let's go."

Dean sort of pointed towards the oven as he was dragged from the room, and John laughed. They were gone for maybe five minutes, then they came in, dragging their bags down to the basement. Once the door to the basement stairs had been closed, Bobby cleared his throat. John looked up. "I need to see the markings on his body, John. The faxes weren't all that clear, and there's no substitute for the real thing."

John nodded. "I know, but I don't really quite know how to put it to him, and then there's the problem of keeping Sam out of the way."

"That's easy enough. We send him away."

"Do you know how many of our 'private' conversations he's heard over the years despite our sending him away, Bobby?" John demanded. "He doesn't stay sent, not especially when his brother's involved."

"Well, it's not like we can give him the keys and send him into town for some random item," Bobby said. "Not for another few years, at any rate."

John grimaced. "I know, but ordering him to stay in his room has never worked."

"Maybe if Dean asked him . . ." Bobby tilted his head, waiting for John's response.

"I don't really want to put Dean in that position," John replied.

Bobby shrugged. "We may not have much choice. Do you think Sam –"

The basement door opened and the boys came out, freshly dressed in clean clothes. John watched Bobby's face when he looked at them, and he could see that Bobby was as affected by seeing them together again as he was. "Sam, set the table. Dean, get the milk and two beers out of the fridge. John, make a hole." For a moment all was organized chaos while Bobby got dinner on the table.

The four of them sat down to the meal, and John managed to eat despite the way his emotions were washing through him. He was so thankful that Dean had finally turned up, alive and healthy. He was devastated to think that he'd spent almost a year and a half in the home of that despicable prick, Jake Metcalf, and he couldn't even express the dismay and despair he felt over the damage that had been done to his son's body and his psyche. All of that passed in and out of his mind while he continued to eat and chat and put on a normal front. His boys, together again, brothers again, ready to do whatever it took to keep each other safe. Mary would be pleased to see this, he thought.

After dinner was over, Bobby went over to the counter and lifted a cloth that John had assumed covered dirty dishes. Underneath was a beautiful, crusty apple pie in a bakery tin. He brought it over to the table with four plates and said, "John, will you do the honors while I get the ice cream?"

"Sure," John said.

Over dessert, they fell to talking about cars, and Dean described all the work he'd done on the Camaro. John sort of drifted out of the conversation and listened to them talking. After awhile, he got up and went to the bathroom. When he got back to the kitchen, Sam was putting the dishes in the sink and wiping up the table. "I forgot how much I liked having juvenile slave labor," Bobby said, squeezing Sam's shoulders. Sam laughed, but Dean looked mildly uncomfortable.

"I can dry," he said, standing up.

"Bobby's got a dishwasher," Sam replied. "I got it. You just have to do things like mop the floor and clean toilets."

"Thrilling," Dean said.

"Show me this Camaro I've heard so much about," John said.

John, Dean and Bobby trooped out together to look at the car, leaving Sam working on the dishes. John hoped Sam wouldn't feel too left out, but the opportunity couldn't be missed. They talked about the car for several minutes, but then Dean shook his head. "I'm not stupid. You brought me out here to get me away from Sammy."

John shrugged. "I'm interested in the car, too, Dean," he said. "But it's true, it was a good chance to avoid Sam hearing what we need to talk about."

Dean glanced uneasily at Bobby, then shrugged. "I'm not sure I'm up to talking about much," he said.

John grimaced and glanced at Bobby. Bobby gave him a dark look and said, "Dean, you know I'm working on the glyphs that . . ." All three of them looked away. Bobby cleared his throat. "Well, I'm working from sketches made from photographs and then faxed. It's a little third or fourth hand. I really need a look at the real McCoy."

Dean flushed, and then he went white. "Why? What do you think they mean?"

"Frankly, I don't know," Bobby said. "But I have a strong suspicion that they're spells of some kind, meant to do things like interfere with your memory, make you harder to find, there are any number of possibilities, none of them good."

John wasn't sure he'd have put it that bluntly, and Dean sort of swayed with the impact of the information. John bit his lip, not sure if he could add anything to either persuade or comfort. What could he say, after all, Bobby wasn't lying, he was just being more forthright than John had expected.

"I can give you the photographs," Dean said, his eyes looking anywhere but at their faces.

"That would help, but it would really help to see them live," Bobby said.

"What are you, some kind of pervert?" Dean demanded, turning to glare at Bobby. "What possible benefit could there be to seeing the scars?" His whole body thrummed with tension. "I don't –" He shook his head. "I can't. I won't!"

He turned and stormed off through the yard. John started to go after him, but Bobby put a hand on his shoulder. "Let me. It's me he's mad at anyway."

John wanted – needed to help his son, but he understood Bobby's point. Catching sight of Sam coming around the building, his anxiety radiating clear enough to be seen from here, John said, "You check on Dean, I'll get Sam."

Bobby hurried off after Dean, and John intercepted Sam, who was on the same course. "Sammy, not now," he said.

"What did you say to him?" Sam demanded, glaring up at John. "Why'd he run off like that?"

"It's hard to explain, Sam, but it's nothing bad," John replied. Not strictly the truth, but they didn't intend anything bad, so it would have to do.

"Then why'd he look so freaked out?" Sam asked.

To John he'd looked furious, but Sam had a different perspective on his brother than he did. "I can't really explain. It's got something to do with that stuff I can't tell you about."

Sam stared off where Dean and now Bobby had disappeared, then he turned and looked up at his dad. "I understand why you didn't tell Dean, but why didn't you tell me?" he asked, his eyes wide and brimming with tears.

John put his arm around Sam and whisked him back into the house. This was not a scene he wanted Dean coming in on. "Sam, I didn't want to interfere," he said, leading Sam into the living room, clearing the sofa of books and sitting him down.

"Interfere?" Sam asked, looking puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"I was afraid if I said something, you'd get distracted and upset. I didn't want you to go all awkward and uncomfortable." He stroked Sam's hair. "You two were getting along so well."

Sam glowered at him. "We're still getting along. I knew all afternoon, and I didn't do anything weird."

John grimaced. "I couldn't be sure –"

"You could have just trusted me," Sam said. "I'm not a little kid anymore."

"I know that," John said, pulling his youngest son close.

Sam snuggled in for once. "It's so weird, him being in school with me like that. Don't you think?"

"Weird but wonderful," John replied, once again offering his thanks up to whoever was listening that his son had been returned to him. "When did you figure it out?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't know. I just suddenly realized I'd been thinking of him as Dean, and I didn't really know when I started." John squeezed him. "Dad, what's wrong with him? I mean, it was one thing you not telling me stuff when he was just my friend, but he's my brother."

"Well, first of all, I think he's got a spell on him that completely blocks his memory of everything from before he was taken."

Sam nodded slowly. "That would make sense, because if I figured it out, Dean would, easy."

"Yeah," John said.

"So, a spell?"

"A glyph, actually," John replied.

"Wouldn't that mean a witch?" Sam asked.

"We don't think so, Sammy."

Sam looked up at him. "You think it was a demon, don't you?"

"What gave you that idea?" John asked.

"I heard you and Bobby talking about finding sulfur by the groceries. It took me awhile to put it together, but I figured out later that sulfur means demons."

John nodded, reflecting just how right his earlier comments to Bobby had been. "Yeah, we think it was a demon, Sammy."

"How'd he get away if it was a demon?" Sam asked, his anxiety clear.

"He escaped while the demon wasn't there," John said gently.

Sam stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head. "It can't have been that easy," he said.

John shook his head. "No, it wasn't."

Sam sat, clearly waiting, then he sighed. "And you're not going to tell me what happened, are you?"

John shifted so that he and Sam were facing each other a little more and bent his head to meet his son's eyes. "You know how they say that not knowing is the worst thing." Sam nodded, eyes wide. "Sometimes that's not true, Sammy." John moistened his lips. "Sometimes knowing is a hell of a lot worse. Your brother's been through hell. He just doesn't want you to have those images in your head, and he doesn't even know you're his brother yet." Sammy nodded, his eyes filling with tears. John pressed his forehead to Sam's. "Hell, I wish I could get the images out of my head."

Sam blinked at him a couple of times, then the tears started to fall. John pulled him close. Sam's tears broke through John's control. He buried his face in Sam's hair and let loose.


	18. Chapter 18

Dean slammed his fist into the door of a mangled car. He couldn't hurt it any worse than it was already, and he had to find an outlet for his emotions. He'd been wandering through the yard, avoiding whoever was following him for at least ten minutes, but he couldn't keep it up. He had to let loose, even though it meant pinpointing his location.

"Careful, boy!"

Dean turned, startled, to see that Bobby guy behind him. "I didn't hurt the car," Dean said, dusting off the dent he made. "I mean, not much."

"Hell, I'm not worried about the car, boy, I'm worried about your hand. You only got one in full operation at the moment, so you need not to dick around with it."

Dean rubbed his left fist with his right fingers. "I'm okay," he said. "What are you doing out here? I half-expected John. I didn't expect you."

"John's with Sam," Bobby said. "He saw you take off like a bat out of hell, and I think it freaked him out a little."

Dean grimaced and looked away. "Maybe they'd be better off without me."

"Like hell they would," Bobby growled, and Dean took a step back in surprise. "Let me tell you, Sam and John would be devastated if you took off."

Dean shook his head. "I don't get that," he said. "They treat me like I'm one of the family, and I'm not."

Bobby glared at him. "Family don't end with blood," he said.

Dean sighed. "It's obvious that you guys all feel that way," he replied. "But I can tell you, most people don't."

"What about you?" Bobby asked. "How do you feel?"

"If you'd asked me a month ago, I don't know what I would have said," Dean said frankly. "But ever since Sammy and I . . ." He shrugged, turning away. "I've never felt this way about anyone, which sounds weird and geeky, and I don't know why I'm telling you, but I never have. The shrinks said I had trouble bonding and seemed to think it meant I was going to grow up into a serial killer or something, but I think I just never ran into the right people."

"More than possible," Bobby said. "Look, I didn't mean to freak you out back there."

"Good job with that," Dean said sourly. "Why the hell do you want to look at my . . ." He shuddered at the mere thought of showing anyone.

"I can assure you that it's not morbid curiosity, or anything prurient."

"Anything . . . what?" Dean asked.

"Salacious," Bobby said, and Dean shook his head. "Kinky."

"Oh," Dean said. "Why didn't you just say that in the first place?"

Bobby shrugged. "Does it matter?" Dean shrugged back. "Honestly, I meant what I said. I think those things are spells."

"The shrinks said my memory loss was from trauma," Dean said.

Bobby grimaced. "That's entirely possible, but those things on you do something, that I'm sure of." Dean touched his abdomen, feeling the marks beneath his shirt. "And if one of them does block your memory, don't you want to know that?"

"Could you . . . I don't know . . . fix it?" Dean asked.

"I might be able to, but I'd have to examine them to do that."

Dean's hand fisted in his shirt. "Well, I'm not taking my shirt off out here," he said, his voice unsteady.

"No kidding," Bobby replied, sarcasm heavy in his tone. "For one thing it's awful cold. For another, if you bumped into something out here, you'd wind up with tetanus." He reached out tentatively, and when Dean didn't object, he put a hand on his shoulder. "Come on, let's get back to the house before we freeze to death."

Dean nodded, and they walked back towards the house. When they got inside, they found John and Sammy in the kitchen, making hot chocolate. "You don't have marshmallows, Uncle Bobby," Sam announced as they came in. "What's wrong with you?"

"Well, excuse my dreadful transgression," Bobby said. Apparently sarcasm came naturally to him, something Dean could appreciate. "Someone will have to go pick some up in town tomorrow."

Dean accepted a cup of hot chocolate, then said, "Well, I've had all the fun I can take today. I think I'm going to hit the sack."

"Me too," Sammy said instantly, and Dean winked at him. Sammy looked like he'd been crying, but then Dean probably looked like crap, too. A flashback yesterday, nightmares off and on for nights, followed by the ruckus with Bobby and John that they'd just cleared up. He decided not to ask what was up with Sammy. Probably something to do with his brother.

"Let's go, kid."

"It's not kid, it's Sam."

"Whatever, short stack."

* * *

Bobby took down a bottle of rum from a cabinet. "Want a shot?" he asked, and John held out his mug. Bobby treated them both to a generous shot of alcohol, then put the bottle away. "I think I've got him convinced, by the way," he said. "All depends on if he changes his mind in the morning."

"You think he will?"

"What do I know about the minds of adolescents?" Bobby growled.

"As much as any other adult," John said.

"Sounds like he had a whole lot of really stupid psychiatrists," Bobby said. "I swear, they should test the psychiatrist's intelligence before they assign him to a patient. When the kid is smarter than the shrink, it's never good."

"What are you saying, Bobby?"

"Well, I somehow doubt that any of them came right out and said they thought he was going to grow up into a serial killer, but whatever they did say, that's what Dean got out of it. Stupid, arrogant sons of bitches, messing with people's heads and sending them out worse than they were when they started."

John grimaced. "Sam pulled out all the stops," he said. "I had to tell him the bare minimum of what happened to Dean, but I hope we'll be able to get him to stay away from things tomorrow."

"If they happen."

"They'll happen," John said, and Bobby snorted. One wouldn't ordinarily peg John Winchester as an optimist, but he had his moments.

* * *

Sam woke up to jerky movements on the bed next to him. "Dean?" he murmured, but the movements didn't stop. He leaned up and turned on the bedside lamp. It threw shadows around the room, casting objects into sharp relief. He rolled over and looked at Dean, who was still twitching and jerking around. "Dean?" he said again, louder this time. He touched Dean's shoulder.

"What?" Dean's eyes opened sharply and he stared up at Sam in surprise and alarm. "Sammy?"

"You were dreaming," Sam said. "And it didn't look fun."

"Did I wake you up?"

Sam shrugged. "No big deal," he said.

Dean grimaced. "I'm sorry, kid." Sam raised an eyebrow. "Sorry, Sam," Dean said with sarcastic emphasis. "Thanks for waking me up. It was a doozy."

"You want to talk about it?" Sam asked.

Dean's expression closed down. "No, Sammy, I don't."

Sam flopped flat on the bed. "It's okay. I get it, I guess."

"What do you get?" Dean asked. He lay down flat, too, staring at the ceiling.

"Dad told me some stuff yesterday, about what's been going on."

"What stuff?" Dean asked suspiciously.

"Just that you got taken by a demon when you were a kid, and bad stuff happened, and that I'm better off not knowing. He said you didn't want me to have those images in my head."

Dean lay silent for a moment. "That's a really good explanation," he said finally. "I don't. There are some things no kid should see."

"But I'm older than you were when they happened, aren't I?" Sam asked. He thought it was an important point.

"Yeah, but Sammy, I don't have a choice about knowing it," Dean said. "You do."

"No, I don't," Sam replied. "You won't tell me, and you won't let anyone else tell me."

Dean shrugged. "You can avoid knowing it. I can't."

Sam sighed. "I guess, but I want to help you."

"You do help me, just by being around and being . . . I don't know, semi-normal. I'm such a freak that it makes me feel better having you around."

"You are not a freak!" Sam protested.

"Well, I feel like a freak," Dean said. "And you make me feel like less of one."

Sam shook his head. "I want to help a little more actively than that."

"Well, I know this won't make you feel any better, but it would actively not help me to know that what's happened to me has spilled over onto you."

Spilled over . . . Sam sighed again. "I won't pester you about it," he said.

"Thanks." They lay silently for a moment, then Dean cleared his throat. "Bobby and I – and if I know your dad, him, too – we're going to be working on some of that stuff tomorrow, probably in the morning." He leaned up on his elbows and gave Sam a serious look. "Sammy, you need to understand this isn't about trust. I trust you, I just don't want –"

"The images in my head, yeah," Sam said dispiritedly.

"Well, when your dad, Bobby and I meet about this stuff, I . . ." Dean paused, then he said, "I don't want you around, and I know you tend to sneak in to listen and watch if you can."

Sam grimaced. "But Dean, I . . ." He shook his head. "You're asking me to stay out of the way, aren't you?"

"More than that," Dean said. "I'm asking you not to try and listen in. Or sneak a peek or anything."

Sam blinked. "There's something to peek at?" he asked.

"Yeah," Dean said.

"Oh." Sam considered that for a while. "Is that why you always get changed in the bathroom?" Dean nodded without speaking. "I thought you were just modest."

Dean snorted. "I never thought about it like that, but yeah, I guess I am." He rolled over and looked at Sam. "Go to sleep, kid. I'm betting your dad and Bobby are going to be up with the dawn."

"You don't know them if you think that," Sam said, but he turned off the lamp and tried to go back to sleep.

Much to his surprise, it was just past six when he woke up to his dad shaking the end of the bed. "Up an at 'em, boys," he said. "Rise and shine. Bobby's making waffles."

"Cool," Dean said, rolling out of the bed on the other side. "I get first shower."

"No fair!" Sam exclaimed, but Dean was already out of the room, a pile of clothes in his hands. "You have longer legs," he called after his disappearing brother.

His dad was watching him with amusement in his eyes, but that changed to concern, and he sat down. "Sam, I've got to talk to you. Bobby and –"

"You and Dean and Bobby are going to have a private meeting, and I'm not allowed to peek or listen in or anything. Right?"

His father's expression was almost funny. "Right."

"Dean and I talked about it last night. He had a nightmare, and when I woke him up out of it, we talked for a while. He said you guys would be up with the dawn, but I thought he was nuts."

"So, you're okay with it?" his dad asked, looking surprised.

Sam shook his head. "No, but . . . but Dean really meant it. Maybe he'll tell me when I'm older, but anyway, he's having enough problems. I don't want to make things worse."

"Thanks, Sammy," Dad said, tousling his hair. "You're a good kid. What are you going to do instead?"

"I'm going to go scope out the old Talmadge place," Sam said. "Bobby said they've got a kid my age, so maybe I should find out a little bit about him before we go to school on Monday."

"Sounds like a plan."

After breakfast, Sam took off and wished he could convince Dean he could handle whatever there was to handle.

* * *

Bobby watched Sam leave the house like there were hellhounds on his trail and looked over at John. "How'd you convince him?"

"I didn't," John said, gesturing with his head towards Dean.

"You helped, actually," Dean said to John. John raised an eyebrow. "That stuff you said about me not wanting him to have the images in his head. I never thought about it that way, but it's a good way to put it." He picked up his plate and put it in the sink. To Bobby's eye, he looked tense and unhappy. He turned around. "But he won't stay gone forever, so are we going to do this?"

"Yeah," Bobby said. "I figured we'd go into the library. I've already got all the windows covered, and the fire built up. We can close the doors in case Sam comes back early."

Dean nodded, looking pale but determined. "Okay." He walked into the room, leaving John and Bobby staring at each other. "You coming?" the kid asked.

John went after him and Bobby followed, reflecting that Dean had always been like that. Once he'd made his mind up, he didn't want to wait for the next step. He went through the sliding doors and pulled them closed. He turned around. "Okay, whenever you're ready."

"I don't suppose those lock, do they?" Dean asked, looking at the doors.

"No, they don't," Bobby said. "Do you really think Sam would intrude?"

Dean shook his head. He put his hands on his shirt, but then he hesitated. "I . . . you got to understand, I lived with Jake and Louise for nearly a year and a half, and neither of them ever saw me with my shirt off. I only took my shirt off for doctors when they made me. I . . . no one's seen . . ."

"We aren't going to freak out, Dean," John said in a reassuring voice. He walked over and put his hands on his son's shoulders. Dean looked up at him uneasily, and John sighed. "Well, maybe we will, it'll be hard not to, but it won't change what we think of you."

Dean nodded and, closing his eyes, he stripped the shirt off in one fast motion. Bobby was reminded irresistibly of jerking a Band-Aid off in one go to get it over with quickly. Then he was just horrorstruck.

He'd seen the sketches, and he'd imagined what the glyphs might look like on a human body, but he hadn't been prepared to see quite how much real estate they covered. The scars were slightly keloid, but instead of a pinkish appearance, they had an odd greenish tinge. As John had said they were very precise in shape, unnaturally so.

John let out an odd sounding gulp and sat down. Dean looked over at him worriedly and started to pull his shirt back on. "No!" John said. "We need to find out what they mean, Dean. Ignore me. Let Bobby work."

This transferred Dean's attention to Bobby, and the boy's jaw tightened. He tossed the shirt down, his posture translating the act into a statement of defiance. Against what, Bobby couldn't be sure. It could be his own emotions, it could be the demon who'd done this to him, it could be the reactions he expected from the two adults he was showing himself to. Hell, it could easily be a combination of all three. He put his arms down at his sides and said, "Well?"

Bobby nodded and walked closer. "Do they hurt or itch?" he asked.

Dean shrugged. "They don't itch, but sometimes they do hurt. Like, after a . . . a flashback, I'll get what the doctors call phantom pain along them. I don't know why, but it always goes away pretty quick."

Bobby nodded again and examined the shape of the one on Dean's abdomen. He picked up the fax that was labeled abdomen and reflected that it might have been helpful to have directions labeled. It was an oblong, and Bobby had assumed, given the general shape of the human body, that it had been placed with the long side horizontal to the floor, but it was vertical. Bobby pursed his lips and tried to figure out how to tell Dean that he needed him to unbutton his jeans. Dean followed his gaze and flushed a little. He undid his jeans and took them off, kicking them to the side. Bobby turned and built the fire up a bit further. "Come around this side of the desk," he said gruffly. "It'll be warmer."

Dean did as he'd instructed and pulled his boxers down to ride just below his hips. He looked massively uncomfortable, and Bobby couldn't blame him. Nevertheless, now he could see all of the pattern that extended around his navel to about an inch above his pubic hair.

"Maybe you should take a picture," Dean said suddenly, and Bobby looked up, startled. "I don't really want to have to strip off if you have a question later."

Bobby had been trying to come up with a way to broach the subject with him, but he wasn't looking a gift horse in the mouth. He grabbed his camera and carefully focused on just the glyph. He snapped two pictures, just to be safe, then moved closer. "Okay, I'm sure this will sound very weird, but can I touch the skin?"

Dean grimaced. "Sure."

Bobby reached out and put his finger on the upper part of the design. Dean flinched slightly, but he didn't move away. The skin felt smooth, like normal scar tissue, and Bobby didn't know what he'd expected. Some remnant of energy, maybe. "What kind of sensation do you have?"

"Normal, I guess. It was really sensitive for a long time after it finally healed, but it's not like that now. It doesn't feel the same as the rest of my skin, but I have other scars, and they feel sort of the same."

"Keloid?"

"Not sure what that means," Dean said.

"The raised bump," Bobby said. He glanced at John. There wasn't much sound coming from him, and he hadn't come any closer when Dean and Bobby had moved around the desk. His eyes were focused on his son's body, and Bobby hoped he'd keep the tears in because they might be a little hard to explain to the kid. Before Dean could notice his distraction, he said, "What order were they done in?"

The color faded from Dean's face. "I . . . it . . . I think the first . . . was the back," he said, stumbling over his words badly.

"You think?" Bobby asked gently.

"I . . . my first clear memory starts during this one," Dean said, gesturing towards his belly but not touching it. "I already had that one then, so it must have come . . ." He shuddered. "I can't talk about this."

"It's okay," Bobby said, though it really wasn't. He needed more information. He needed every detail he could get, but he wasn't screwing up Dean's mental health to get it.

"The one on his left side was last," John said, and both of them turned to look at him. "The report."

Dean closed his eyes. Bobby grimaced. "You want a break, kid?"

"No," Dean said, his eyes flipping open. "Let's get this over with."

Bobby nodded. "Okay. I need another picture in front here."

Dean tensed, but he just stood still while Bobby moved in for a close up on the brand. It was intricate, but its lines were more clearly defined than seemed possible. He focused the camera in tight to catch every detail and hoped the picture would come out.

"Those were done . . . at different times than the . . . the other stuff," Dean said. "There was . . . a lot . . . of stuff."

Bobby looked closer and saw a whole lot of little tiny scars, no bigger around than a pencil lead. "I can see that," he said, his gut churning. John must have heard something in his voice because he was suddenly right beside him.

"My God, Dean," John said. "You said . . . but I didn't . . ."

"It's over," Dean said, and it was clear he was intensely uncomfortable with the close scrutiny. Bobby gave John a look, and he reluctantly backed off. Dean reminded him of a nervous colt, trembling slightly as he was examined. Bobby put a hand on Dean's shoulder as he went around behind him to help the kid know where he was. Once there, he couldn't help noticing a number of the same kinds of tiny, circular scars on Dean's back, too. He swallowed uneasily and stepped back to get a better look at the design. He picked up the fax and looked at it. This was the largest of the four glyphs, and Bobby realized, looking at it, that it was actually two glyphs, one of which he thought he recognized. "One minute," he said, and he went to the shelves to grab a book.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked, turning halfway around. "Hey, you can look at the books later. We are getting this over with as quickly as possible."

Caught in the middle of flipping through pages, Bobby looked up. "Balls . . . sorry." He put the book down on the desk and picked up the camera. "Sorry, Dean I wasn't thinking." He took pictures of the glyphs, together and separately, and then he got a picture of the brand. "Okay, the back is done. Can you lift your arm?"

Dean raised his right arm, resting his cast across the top of his head. Bobby leaned in with the camera. This one was narrower, and it was more blue than green in color. Bobby took the photos quickly, then moved around to Dean's left side. This glyph had healed less neatly, and Bobby wondered why. The lines were still clear and unbroken, but the edges weren't clean like with the others. He took his pictures and then backed away. "Get dressed, boy."

Dean dove for his shirt first. Not only was it easier to reach, it covered the part of himself that he most wanted to be concealed. That much was moderately obvious. He went around the table and got his jeans on.

* * *

Dean did up his fly, his hands shaking, hoping desperately that neither Bobby nor John had noticed. As soon as his clothes were straight, John grabbed his shoulder and turned him, then pulled him into a tight hug. The sudden closeness broke through Dean's barriers, and he found himself holding on to John, tears coursing down his face.

"You did good, Dean," John murmured. "You did great."

Dean heard movement, and he realized that Bobby had left the room. He just burrowed into John's arms. Later he knew he'd be embarrassed as hell, but right now the comfort felt really good. John backed them up to a loveseat and they sat down.

John was a father . . . something Dean had never known. No adult had ever made him feel this safe. Nothing had ever made him feel this safe


	19. Chapter 19

Sam ghosted along behind a kid who actually looked younger than him. He was shorter and blond, and he was a little chubby. They were walking out onto the property that bordered both Bobby's land and the old Talmadge parcel. It was hilly with scrubby trees and bushes. Sam had spent a lot of time out here on his own when he'd lived with Bobby, and had, in fact, built a kind of fort for himself. The other kid was heading straight for it.

He let the kid draw ahead, feeling kind of conflicted. Forts were childish things, and he didn't need it anymore, but having the kid take his over made him feel strangely possessive.

When he got in sight of the thing, he realized that his successor had not merely taken it over, he'd made it his own. The walls were better, and it looked like there was some kind of carpet on the floor. Sam still felt weird about it, but less like it was his space. The kid was sitting in the back of it, writing in a spiral notebook. He looked up and saw Sam, and his eyes widened.

"Hi," Sam said.

The kid got up. "Hi." He looked around. "Who are you?"

"My name's Sam." He shrugged, nodding at the fort. "I built that thing."

"Oh, I . . . I thought no one was interested in it anymore," the kid said anxiously. "I didn't mean –"

Sam shook his head. "Oh, I don't care," he said. "I don't live here anymore. I'm just visiting for awhile." The kid nodded, but he still looked kind of uneasy. "What's your name?"

"Jeremy," he said. "Jeremy Stiles. We just moved in a couple of months ago."

Sam nodded. "To the old Talmadge place," he said. "Uncle Bobby said there was a kid my age there now."

"The salvage guy is your uncle?" Jeremy asked.

"Well, he's my dad's best friend, I guess. I don't have any real uncles."

"Oh. He seems pretty cool."

"He is," Sam said. "I –"

He heard footsteps in the bracken behind him and turned sharply. A girl came into view around the corner. She was tall and really pretty, blond and blue-eyed. She was stomping along the path, and she looked angry. In a strident voice she said, "Jeremy, Mom wants to know –" She stopped dead. "Who are you? What are you doing here?" she demanded.

Sam looked up at her, a little annoyed by her attitude. "My name's Sam Winchester. I'm staying with Bobby Singer."

She glared at him, then seemed to dismiss him as unimportant. "Mom wants to know where you put the box with the garden tools."

"In the shed, where Dad told me to," Jeremy said. "It's under that bench at the back."

She rolled her eyes, giving the haphazard building a disparaging look. "That's really stupid, you know. Only babies build forts."

"He didn't build it," Sam said. "I did."

This brought the glare back down on him. "You don't even live here."

"I used to," Sam said. He turned his back on her. "Jeremy, there's a really cool cave a little ways east of here. You want me to show it to you?"

"Sure," Jeremy said.

"This way." Sam turned towards Jeremy's sister. "Excuse me," he said, the words polite but the tone less so. She shifted back a little, and Sam brushed past her. "Come on, Jeremy." She followed them as far as the fork that would take them towards the cave. Sam kept an ear out and heard her heading back towards the Talmadge land. The Stiles land, now, he supposed. "Your sister, huh?"

"Patricia," Jeremy said, and there was unspoken emotion in his voice. Not happy emotion.

"How old is she?" Sam asked.

"Seventeen. She's a senior, thank God, so I won't have to be in school with her ever again after June."

"Oh, are you a freshman?" Sam asked.

"Yeah. I turned fifteen last month." He gave Sam a defiant look. "I know I don't look it, but I'm not lying."

Sam shrugged. "Even if you were, what's it to me? I lie about my age all the time. I won't be fourteen till May, but I'm a freshman, too, so it's easier."

"Why'd you tell me?" Jeremy asked.

"Because I can't lie here," Sam said. "I went to school at Fremont for three years, and that's where I skipped a grade. But I move around a lot, and it's easier to say I'm fourteen than to explain why I should be a freshman and not an eighth grader."

"You mean, you lie to the schools, too?" Jeremy asked incredulously.

Sam shrugged again. "Sure."

Jeremy grinned. "Cool!"

* * *

When Dean stiffened and pulled away, John let him go. Heartsore for the pain his son was suffering, he nevertheless let him go. Dean wouldn't stand being babied, he never had. He watched Dean avert his eyes and wipe them on his sleeve, then looked away so he wouldn't be caught watching. John cleared his throat. "So, I'm going to make a grocery run. You want to come?" Dean shrugged. "You can drive," he added, and Dean looked up, his eyes shining.

"Seriously?" John nodded. "The Impala?" John nodded again, grinning. "Hell yes!"

John dug the keys out of his pocket and handed them over. He opened the door to the kitchen and found Bobby sitting at the table, flipping through one of the books he'd taken with him when he'd made his escape from the emotional scene. "We're heading to town. You need anything besides marshmallows?"

"I made a list," Bobby said, pointing without looking up.

"Thanks. Let Sam know where we've gone, okay?"

"Sure. You going to be back in time for lunch?"

John glanced at his watch. "I don't think so."

"Would you drop something off for me?"

"No problem," John said. Bobby handed him a paper bag that had been stapled shut. There was an address written on the outside. Bobby glanced at Dean, then at John, and John got the message. These were the undeveloped rolls of film. Fortunately, Dean was too busy looking at the keys John had handed him to notice the byplay.

"There's a note inside," Bobby added. "Catch you later."

John wanted to ask him if he'd found anything, but he was not inclined to spoil Dean's mood. "Come on, Dean."

Getting into the passenger side of the Impala was a little weird, but it was thrilling to have Dean there, Dean driving the car. It made him feel like a million bucks. He hadn't reckoned on the sudden panic that would fill him when the car started moving. It wasn't that Dean wasn't driving well, he was doing fine. John had simply discovered a certain parental dilemma. Having junior drive the car was nerve-wracking, both on account of junior and on account of the car. He concealed his reaction under a veneer of calm, leaning back in the seat and giving the impression that he was enjoying the ride. Which he was, on one level. On another he was agonizing over every little thing that could go wrong.

John gave him directions into town, and took him by the address Bobby wanted the film dropped off at first. Leaving Dean in the car, he went up to the door and knocked. A woman answered, looking nervous. "Bobby Singer asked me to drop this by," John said, and her anxiety abated somewhat. "He said there's a note inside."

"Thanks," she said.

He walked back to the car. Dean was stroking the wheel with a very possessive air. John knew then that he'd remembered the Impala, too, on some visceral level. He opened the door and climbed in, and Dean dropped his hands into his lap, looking like he felt guilty. John sat down. "Left at the end of the street," he said, and Dean lost his guilty expression in the sheer joy of driving the car.

Bobby's list wasn't short. Evidently he had miscalculated on the amount of food he'd need for two teenaged boys. Of course, he hadn't actually expected both of them to be staying. They made their way up and down the aisles, and John picked up a few things he knew Sam would like.

When they reached the front, the cart was piled high and there were short lines at both the open registers. John chose the nearer and pulled his cart up to a stop. Dean had been staying close, but he suddenly said, "I'll be back in a minute." He walked away quickly and came back with a hand basket. He walked up to a girl who looked around sixteen. She stood at the end of the next line over, juggling six items. "This might help a little," he said, holding the basket out. The girl smiled at him and deposited her selections into the basket, but she made no move to take it from him, and he made no move to hand it over. John rolled his eyes. There was no doubting that his boy was a flirt.

"Thank you," she said with a sweet smile. "I'm Trish. I haven't seen you around here before."

"We just got into town yesterday," Dean said.

"Really?" she asked, dimpling. "What's your name?"

"Dean." The line moved, and he shifted forward with her. "You go to Jackson High?" She nodded. "Then I guess I'll be seeing you on Monday."

"Oh, are you a senior?" she asked.

Dean shook his head. "A junior. I was sick in junior high, so I missed a year."

"That sucks," she said. It was her turn at the register. "I guess I'll see you on Monday."

"Sure," he said with a grin, handing the basket to the checker. Then he backed away and returned to John's side, giving John an embarrassed look when he realized that John had seen all of it.

John leaned over. "Smooth," he murmured for Dean's ears only. Dean shrugged, but he flushed a little. The incident made John a little worried. He remembered suddenly how very interested in girls Dean had gotten just before he'd disappeared. It appeared that he was going to have to have a chat with his son. He felt vague stirrings of panic at the thought. He'd been working up to a talk about the birds and bees when John had disappeared.

They loaded the trunk full of groceries and Dean offered him the keys. "You want to drive back, sir?" he asked.

"No," John said. "You go ahead." They got into the car and John said, "Dean, we need to have a talk."

Dean froze with the keys partway to the ignition. He turned, eyes wide. "Is something wrong?"

"No, no," John said hastily. "Nothing like that. I just . . ." He hesitated, not sure quite how to put this. He hadn't seen any need to have this kind of talk with Sam yet. He knew girls were different, but he hadn't yet come to appreciate the difference. "I somehow doubt that Jake had this talk with you, and I just think it's . . ."

Dean's posture relaxed a little, and he stared at John. "What talk?"

John reflected on the fact that all the names Sam had identified as Dean's friends were female. "I assume you're sexually active," John said in sort of a blurt. Dean went pale and turned away, focused on the center of the steering wheel, and John wasn't sure how to read that reaction. "So I thought we should probably talk about safe sex."

Dean shook his head. "Not really necessary," he said in a strangled voice.

"If you're sexually active, you –"

"I'm not," Dean said, his voice low and smothered. He hadn't looked up from the horn.

"You're not?" John repeated, caught flat. He hadn't expected that.

Dean looked up, his face a rictus of embarrassment. "You . . . you saw me," he said, his hands fluttering in the direction of his torso. The keys jingled, and Dean dropped his hands again, looking hideously self conscious.

John was caught between two conflicting reactions. He wanted to reassure Dean that no woman worth spending time with would judge him based on those marks, but he also wasn't sure he wanted Dean crossing that line quite yet if he hadn't already. But Dean thought he was eighteen, and he would be in fact soon enough.

"That doesn't have to stand in the way," John said. "I mean, it doesn't mean anything about you."

"Any normal girl, looking at me, is going to want to run home to Mommy," Dean said, his voice low and tense. "And the abnormal ones would find it . . . interesting." He shuddered. "It doesn't really matter."

"It matters, Dean," John said.

Dean shrugged. "I don't really want to talk about it. And the social workers covered safe sex pretty thoroughly when I was fourteen."

John supposed they probably had. "Okay, sorry. I didn't mean to bring up an uncomfortable subject."

Dean shrugged again, and then he started the car. The drive back was a lot faster than the drive out had been, and John suspected there was an emotional component to that. He didn't say anything, and he kept his white-knuckled grip on the armrest as subtle as possible.

* * *

Bobby stared at the facsimile of a cuneiform tablet in the book he was scanning through. Parts of it were written in cuneiform, but there was a section that was described by the author of the text as "highly decorative, having religious significance." _Religious significance_ was archeologist shorthand for _we don't have the foggiest clue what it means._

Nevertheless, he had found a source for one of the symbols, and it dated back to more than 3000 years BC. That got him next to nothing in terms of interpreting it, but it might give him a better idea where to look for more information.

The door opened and Sam came racketing into the house. "I've met that kid," Sam said, and Bobby wrenched his mind back to the present. "His name is Jeremy, and I told him he could come over after church tomorrow. Is that okay with you?"

"Sure, Sam," Bobby said. "Your dad and Dean are out at the store. You hungry? I expected you back for lunch."

"I had lunch at Jeremy's," Sam replied. "His parents were really nice."

"Good." Bobby looked down at the page again. "Would you go grab me a beer, Sam?"

"What are you researching?" Sam asked, immediately going to the fridge.

"Some symbols," Bobby replied, trying not to sound evasive. He put a marker in the book and shut it. "How are you doing with all of this, Sam?" he asked, tentatively.

Sam shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "It's all really weird. I mean, it's amazing to have Dean back, but I can't tell him I know he's my brother. I didn't tell Jeremy anything about him, because I wasn't sure what to call him. Friend just doesn't cover it, and I can't tell _Jeremy_ he's my brother if I can't tell _Dean_ he's my brother."

"No, that's true enough."

"I mean, what are we going to tell people at school? Because we act a lot closer than friends."

"I don't know," Bobby said. He shrugged. "We can figure that out later." They both heard the growl of the Impala, and Sam darted out of the house instantly. Bobby opened the book again and carried it through into the library. He pulled down another reference, a more occult reference that dealt with the Sumerian period, and looked to see if he could find that same text.

Next thing he knew, the kitchen was full of people putting stuff away. Sam took over, instructing both John and Dean where to put things, acting on his authority as a previous resident. The house was really full right now, and it was kind of nice. Bobby had long given up on having a family like this. After Karen's untimely death, he'd cut most of his ties to his few remaining family members, and her family hadn't wanted anything to do with him. He'd found John's sons charming and fun, but up until Dean's disappearance, his contact with them had been sporadic at best. John and he had a fair amount in common, but their temperaments were diametrically opposed. John's driving need for revenge had always disturbed Bobby. Yeah, he wanted payback for Karen's horrifying last days, but he didn't feel a need to track down the specific demon that had possessed her.

Then Dean had been taken while John was on a job, and Sam had called him. Bobby knew it was most likely because he was the closest, but it had put him at ground zero when John had gone on his hunt for Dean. John had left Sam with him, explaining that he had to keep Sam safe, and that there were things after him. Bobby had chalked that up to paranoia, and he'd kept little Sammy in with him at night because the poor kid was so freaked. He wasn't up to leaving a frightened eight-year-old boy alone.

"I've still got some work to do on the Camaro," Dean said suddenly. "You want to help, Sammy?"

The phone rang, and Bobby turned his attention away from the boys. He picked it up. "Singer Salvage."

"Bobby, this is Elaine."

"Elaine, hi," Bobby said, turning away from the kitchen. "How'd the pictures come out?"

"Crystal clear, and now I'm going to have nightmares. Those things are carved into skin, aren't they?"

Bobby grimaced. "Yeah. Okay, someone will be by either today or tomorrow to pick them up. Monday at the latest."

"Look, this is going to sound weird, but want these photos out of my house as soon as possible. They give me the creeps. I mean, I think you caught more than you think you did."

"What?"

"I can't describe it. You'll have to come get them and see for yourself."

Bobby scowled. "I'll be there as soon as I can." He hung up the phone and went to grab his keys. He found all this more than a little alarming. Elaine was no civilian. She'd seen some pretty scary stuff in the past, and she'd never reacted like this.

John wasn't in the kitchen anymore, and he figured there was a good chance he was with the kids out by the Camaro. He took a deep breath to make sure his unsettled reaction didn't show, then went out to find him. True to his expectations, he found John with a beer in his hand, standing back to watch Dean work. He walked over. "Hey, John, there's a truck I've got that's making a noise I can't identify. You want to come with me? It takes a bit of driving to get it to start."

John's brows knit, and he turned towards him. Bobby could see he was going to suggest they do it later, so he sent a warning glance towards the boys and raised his eyebrows. John blinked a couple of times, then said, "Sure. Let's give it a listen. You boys will be fine for a little while without us, right?"

"Sure," Sam said. Dean looked less certain, but Bobby figured that probably had more to do with being on a stranger's property than anything else.

"We'll be back soon," Bobby said, giving Dean what he hoped was a reassuring nod.

They headed over to the truck, Bobby leading the way. It was on the other side of the house, and the minute they were inside with the door shut, John said, "What's going on?"

"The woman who developed the pictures is freaking out," Bobby said. "She says I caught more on film than I knew I caught." John's jaw tensed, and Bobby started the truck. "She also says she doesn't want them in the house, so I told her I'd come pick them up right away."

"Did she say what she saw?" John gazed out the windshield, frozen with tension, his voice low, controlled.

"Nope. Just that they give her the creeps."

"Charming," John muttered.

"Don't judge her reaction till you see them," Bobby said. "I've sent her some pretty weirdo crap, and she hasn't ever turned a hair before this."

John's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "Right," he said, turning to look out the window. They traveled in silence for awhile. The radio in this truck didn't work, and neither of them had much to say. Bobby was contemplating his next move in research, and God knew what was in John's mind.

He was almost to town before John cleared his throat. "I don't know what we're going to do to find out what happened to Dean. He gets anywhere near the subject and he starts to unglue."

"I noticed," Bobby said dryly. He glanced sideways at John. "We could always try a psychic. I don't have anybody on tap at the moment, but we could put out some feelers."

"If I was going to get a psychic to look into this, I'd bring Missouri up from Lawrence, if I could get her to come."

Bobby nodded slowly. "I can see that. She's met Dean before."

"And I consulted her when Dean went missing."

That didn't surprise Bobby in the slightest. John had consulted everyone, including people who'd threatened to kill him if they ever saw him again. No one had been able to provide the slightest lead, but John had been desperate, going from contact to contact. Visiting his home town to see the psychic who had evaluated Mary's death site was definitely in keeping with that.

They reached Elaine's place and Bobby stopped the truck. Before they could even get out, Elaine came running down the front walk, the setting sun flashing on her glasses. John rolled down his window, and she thrust a flat envelope inside. "Something really wanted to control whoever that was," she said. "See you later, Bobby."

"Wait!" John said. "Why do you say that?"

"Just my impression," she replied, and she hurried up to the door and back inside. She hadn't bothered to put on a coat, so she had to be freezing.

Bobby pulled away from the house and said, "Let's get out of town before we –"

"Son of a bitch!" John exclaimed.

At John's yell, Bobby's hands tightened on the wheel, but he managed to keep from jerking too much. He looked over and saw that John had already pulled the photos out of the envelope. "John –" He broke off. "Balls!" There was no point. John was staring at the first picture – a letter-sized enlargement – he held in his hand, tears streaming down his face, and he wasn't hearing a word. Bobby drove out of town and pulled off onto a side road, shutting the engine down and turning towards John. "Let me see."

Wordlessly, John handed the first picture over. Before Bobby could even look at it, though, John started making muffled sounds as he looked at the second one. Bobby stared at him in dismay, very glad he'd brought him along. This reaction at the house would have been bad.

He turned his attention to the photo and suddenly understood the reaction. It was one of the photos of the front of Dean's body. Besides the glyph, which was as clear as Elaine had said it was, there was a scattering of glowing dots that Bobby thought corresponded to the locations of those small circular scars.

He took his hat off and closed his eyes. When his eyes started to burn, he scrubbed at them irritably. They didn't have time to get emotional over this. God knew what all these crappy things did to Dean. He seemed to be in good enough health, but anything could happen as a result of these markings. For all they knew, some of them were only active in the presence of the demon who made them.

Forcing himself, Bobby opened his eyes and scrutinized the photo. "If there's a pattern here, I'm not seeing it."

John shook his head. "I can't see . . . Dean told me that the bastard had some sort of skewers, he described them as long, like needles only thicker. That he stuck them into him . . . but he never got any further than that. It was . . ." John covered his eyes with his hand. "If you can believe it, it was an aside. He was telling me how he escaped. He used . . ."

"John –" Bobby started, but John spoke over him, emotion forcing the words out.

"He used one of the skewers to pick the locks on the chains that held him. Bobby . . ." John's face crumpled. "What did we ever do to deserve this, Bobby?"

"You didn't, John. Bad things happen."

"This isn't bad, Bobby. Bad doesn't begin to cover wells of glowing crap that are sunk into my son's skin. Bad doesn't cover glyphs that seem to be growing."

"Growing?" Bobby exclaimed. John handed him the second photo. It was Dean's back. There were the glowing dots, but there were also offshoots from both the glyphs. They were further intertwining, and some of the lines seemed to have extended down, around the brand, onto Dean's buttocks. These lines weren't visible to the naked eye, but somehow the photographic emulsion had captured them. They didn't glow, they were dark, almost shadowy. "Balls!"

"Do we tell Dean about this? I mean . . . Christ."

"Hell no," Bobby said. "At least not yet." He shook his head. "He's not going to ask to see the photos, and I want to have a whole lot better idea of what we're looking at before we tell him anything."

"But this makes it . . . we have to know what happened, and Dean can't tell us."

Bobby nodded. "That's true enough."

"When we get back to the house, I'm calling Missouri and seeing if she'll come up here."

"Good idea, though how Dean will react to it is anyone's guess."

"We'll work it out," John said. He seemed to have regained some semblance of control, though he was still very edgy looking. He flipped through the remaining pictures, looking at them with a stony expression, then he handed them to Bobby.

Bobby rifled through the photographs quickly, controlling nausea. It was deeply disturbing. He handed them back to John. "You ready to go back?"

"Yeah."

Bobby flipped a u-turn to get back out on the main road and headed back, casting around for a new subject to help John defuse his emotions before they got to the house. "Sam made a new friend," he commented.

"What?" John exclaimed, turning to him with wide eyes.

Bobby gave him a startled look. "It's the boy on the next property, John."

"Oh, right," John said. "He mentioned he was going to go spy on him."

"Spy on him?"

"He wanted to know more about him before school on Monday."

Bobby snorted. "Well, he invited him to come over after church tomorrow," he said. "I told him it was okay."

John rubbed his eyes. "Actually, Dean made a new friend, too. Pretty girl named Trish. He played the gallant knight and rescued her from an armful of groceries."

"Huh. Trust him to make friends with a girl right off."

"I tried to give him the talk," John said, and Bobby knit his brows.

"The talk?"

"You know, condoms, pregnancy, STDs, but he told me he's not sexually active."

"Not surprising," Bobby said sardonically, and John gave him an odd look. "How's he going to convince a girl to take her shirt off if he won't take his off?" He shook his head. "No, the way he behaved today, I doubt very much whether he'd strip off for a girl his own age, and a girl his own age would freak out if she saw that."

"A normal girl would," John said. "He said the abnormal ones would find it interesting, and I got the impression he'd like that even less."

Bobby grimaced. "Any girl who'd find _that_ a turn on is not someone Dean needs to be around," he said.

John shivered. "That's a truly disgusting thought."

"Yeah."

* * *

John was faking it really well. He knew that because Bobby wouldn't let him go back to the house if he was still visibly freaking out. Bobby parked the truck and reminded him that they were supposed to have been listening for a noise.

"I guess it didn't make it on this trip," John said, his voice reasonably level. Bobby shrugged. "So, is there a phone I can use privately?"

"Go on up to my bedroom. I've got a phone in there."

John nodded and went upstairs. Grabbing his journal out of his bedroom, he sat down on Bobby's bed, looking at the phone. He was disturbed by how readily Missouri could read him, but they needed her help. He just hoped she'd cope with what she'd learn if she looked in Dean's mind.

Steeling himself, he dialed. Three rings, and then the familiar breathy voice said, "Hello."

"Missouri, it's John Winchester."

"John," she said, her voice brimming with compassion. "How is Sammy?"

"Sammy's fine," he said. "He's great, actually."

"Good."

"Missouri, I need a favor."

"I know," she said.

"I thought you couldn't read minds at this distance."

"I can't. You called me, John. You wouldn't have called me if you didn't need a favor."

John grimaced. "Yeah, I . . . um . . . I'm not real –"

"I don't mind, John. What is it you need?"

"We found Dean, Missouri," John said. "Or actually, Sammy found Dean."

"Alive?" she asked, her voice full of wonder.

"Alive, well, and living in Georgia," he said. "He has amnesia and . . . well, a lot has happened to him. That's where the favor comes in."

"What do you mean?"

"He's . . . he can't talk about what happened to him, but we really need to know. I was hoping I could persuade you to come up here to meet him and see what you could find out."

"Where are you?"

"South Dakota," he said. "Bobby's."

"Where you left Sam all those years ago," she filled in for him.

"Yeah."

"That's quite a drive, John."

"If you don't feel up to it, I could come down and pick you up."

She was silent for a moment. "What is going on, John?"

"We think Dean was kidnapped by a demon," John said. "He was tortured and physically marked with glyphs, and a number of other things. When we took photos, we discovered things that weren't visible to the naked eye. Missouri, we really need to know what happened to him, and he is simply unable to talk about it without eliciting flashbacks."

"A demon . . ." She sounded alarmed.

He sighed. "If you don't feel able to help with it, I underst –"

"I didn't say that," she retorted. "How soon can you be here?"

John contemplated the drive and the urgency. "Give me about eight hours," he said.

"I'll be ready."

John hung up and went downstairs. Bobby was in the kitchen alone, fixing dinner. John picked up his jacket and his keys. "I'm going to go pick up Missouri now."

"Now?" Bobby exclaimed incredulously. "John –"

"We have to know. There's no time like the present."

Bobby blinked at him. "Make sure you tell the boys before you go," he said sourly. "I'm not getting stuck with breaking it to them. You left me with that task a few too many times with Sammy."

John grimaced. "I'll take care of it," he said. "I'll call you if we're delayed at all, but if everything goes as planned, we'll be back tomorrow sometime."

"Okay," Bobby said dubiously, and John went outside.

Dean was in the car, cranking the engine. He got out as John came up. "She sounds pretty good, you think?"

John nodded. "She sounds great. You do good work."

"Thanks." He was wiping his hands on a cloth. "What time is it?"

"Just past four," John said. "Bobby's fixing dinner."

"Good. I'm starving."

John cleared his throat. "I've got an errand to run," he said. "I'm leaving shortly, and I'll be back sometime tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Dean repeated anxiously. His hands stilled on the cloth. "Is everything okay?"

"I just need to go get someone," John said. "She's in Kansas, so it will take a little time, that's all."

Dean's brows drew together. "Kansas? Isn't that like a seven hour drive?" John nodded. "Is this a hunt? I mean, wouldn't you usually take Sammy?"

"Not for this," John said.

"Because you know, if you want to, you could . . . I don't know, leave me here. I don't think Bobby would mind, and I can be of help here while he's figuring out this stuff that's on me, and then I wouldn't be interfering in your normal way of doing things."

John put his hands on Dean's shoulders. "I am not taking Sam and leaving you behind, Dean," he said. _Not ever._ "For one thing, Sam would never forgive me."

"Sam would never forgive you for what?" Sam said, coming up behind him.

"For something I'm not going to do," John said. "I've got an errand to run. I'll be back tomorrow." He squeezed Dean's shoulders, tousled Sam's hair and headed to the car, out in front of the house.

He had just unlocked the door when he heard Sam speak from right behind him. "Are you ditching us?" he demanded, his voice just shy of angry.

John turned around in surprise. "Ditching you?" he repeated. "Of course not."

"Five years ago you told me you were just going to go check some things out, and you'd be back in a couple of days. I didn't see you again for three months."

John shook his head. "This isn't anything like that, Sam," he said. "I'm literally going to go pick someone up and bring her back. It's just a long drive, so we won't be here till tomorrow. I'm not even taking my stuff."

Sam still looked suspicious. "Who are you picking up?" he asked.

"Someone you don't know, someone to help us with Dean's situation."

That wiped the suspicion off Sam's face. "Really?" he asked. "Someone that will help him remember stuff?"

"Not exactly, though if we're lucky it will get us to that point." He pulled Sam close and hugged him. "I promise, I'll be back tomorrow."

"No hunts?"

"No hunts," John replied. "But if I don't leave soon, it will take me that much longer to get back."

Sam nodded earnestly and stepped away. "See you tomorrow, then," he said.

John got into the Impala and left.

* * *

Sam watched his father drive away and then went back to Dean. He was standing by the Camaro, and he appeared to be lost in thought. In the hand with the cast, he held an oil-stained rag, and the other was fisted by his side. Sam cleared his throat as he approached. "You okay?"

Dean started, then looked at him. "Sure, Sammy," he said, and he was lying. Sam looked at him again and wondered how he could ever have missed that this was his brother. "Here, let's get the car washed, and then it will be ready to be sold."

"What's the point of washing it?" Sam asked. "The minute someone drives past it, it will be covered with dust again. I mean, do you know when Bobby's going to sell it?"

Dean shrugged. "Not really." He led the way towards the mudroom. "Do you know who your dad's going to pick up?"

"He said I don't know her," Sam said, abruptly aware that he had no idea if Dean knew this person was supposed to help with him. "Just that it was a long drive."

"I'll say," Dean replied. "Kansas. He's going to have to drive through another entire state to get there."

Sam blinked. "He's going to Kansas? But . . ." He shook his head. "That's weird."

"What's weird about Kansas?"

"It's where we're from," Sam said. He opened the door and grabbed the carton of Lava soap and sprinkled it liberally over his hands, then handed it to Dean. They scrubbed off and went into the kitchen, which was full of heavenly smells.

"Roast beef?" Dean asked hopefully.

Bobby nodded. "Roast beef, potatoes, green beans, carrots and corn. It will be ready in twenty minutes." Sam got the milk of the fridge. He thought back to when he'd first moved in with Bobby. There had been a lot of pizza, Chinese food and TV dinners then, back before Bobby learned how to cook.

"Can't wait," Dean replied. "I'm starving."

"Never knew a boy your age who wasn't," Bobby said. Sam was staring at him. He had an odd look to him, like something was bugging him, and Sam wondered why.

"Hey, we were wanting to know when you planned to sell the car," Dean said. "I want to get it washed and ready so you won't have any trouble."

"I figured I'd take you boys to school in it on Monday, then drop it off at Jed's. He's got a clunker he wants me to fix up for him, so that works out perfect."

"So we wash it tomorrow," Sam said. "No point today." Dean shrugged, and Sam said, "We'd better set the table." He went to the cupboard and grabbed out some plates, throwing a casual question over his shoulder. "Bobby, do you know who Dad's bringing back from Kansas?"

"I don't think you know her, Sam," Bobby said, and Sam glanced at Dean. Even his less experienced brother picked up on the evasion.

"But who is it?" Sam asked.

"Sam –"

"What's going on, Bobby?" Dean asked. "You both looked really weird when you came back from looking at that truck. And now John's going to Kansas to pick up some chick? It's kinda strange." He tilted his head and looked over at Sam. "Does your dad have a girlfriend?"

Sam goggled at him. "Not likely. He's still way too wound up over what happened to Mom to have a girlfriend."

Dean's brows knit. "I guess he does still wear his wedding ring," he said.

Bobby and Sam shared a look of consternation at this blasé reaction. It was weird to have Dean so calm about Mom. Sam hadn't thought about it before, but when he'd told him about Mom's death, he hadn't reacted at all. He shrugged. "Yeah," he said. "Who's he going after, Bobby?"

"If he didn't tell you, I'm not going to," Bobby replied.

"Uncle Bobby!" Sam exclaimed.

"Sammy, let it be," Dean said. "He's right, John must have his reasons for not wanting us to know."

Sam stared at him in astonishment, shaking his head. "Dad sometimes just keeps things to himself, Dean, without any real reason," Sam protested. "I think it's because it saves arguments."

Dean shrugged, looking unhappy. "So you're going to argue with me about it?" he asked.

Sam bit his lip. "No!" He shook his head and turned to Bobby. "But we can't argue with him now, so why don't you just tell us, Uncle Bobby?"

Bobby sighed and shrugged. "She's from Lawrence," he said. "Her name's Missouri Mosely."

"She's from Lawrence?" Sam asked, and Bobby nodded. "I didn't think dad would ever go back there."

"Dinner's about ready, boys. Get the table set."

Sam nodded and Dean went and grabbed the silverware. "So, Sammy, what do you want to do after dinner?" Dean asked.

Sam shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "We haven't done any training today."

"There's no place in the house where you can do hand to hand training," Bobby said instantly. "And it's too late for you to be going outside for it."

"You could help me with my poker tells," Sam suggested.

"Sounds like a plan, squirt," Dean said. "Bobby, you want to play? It's more fun when there's more players."

Bobby glanced towards the library, but then he shrugged. "What the hell, so long as it's for chicken stakes."

"I don't have any chickens," Dean replied with a straight face, and Bobby glowered at him.

They ate dinner, and Sam kept catching himself watching Dean eat. He was eating with his brother again. Dean hadn't been dead all those years, and Sam didn't have to find some monster who'd eaten him. There was a demon to be destroyed, but that was old familiar territory. They'd always been after a demon. Now they were just after two. His brows knit in sudden concentration. Two? What were the odds that there were two demons after his family? Could it be . . . didn't it almost have to be the same one?

"Did I grow an extra head, Sammy?" Dean asked suddenly. "Or do I have something stuck in my teeth?"

Sam jerked his eyes away from Dean's face. "I was just . . . woolgathering, I think."

"While looking at my face?" Dean asked. "I know it's devilishly handsome, but really, Sammy."

Sam rolled his eyes. "It was just in the way," he said.

"In the way?" Dean repeated. "My face was in the way?" Sam shrugged, and Dean turned to Bobby. "You see how he treats me?"

"Sam's like that," Bobby said. "He starts thinking and the world disappears."

"I am not!" Sam protested.

"So he's a space cadet?" Dean asked. "Good to know. So when he does that, I'll just start saying 'Ground control to Sammy' till he wakes up?"

"Hey!" Sam exclaimed.

Bobby grinned at Dean. "You've got the idea, now, boy. 'Houston, we have a problem.'"

Sam had somehow never expected the reappearance of Dean to mean a resurgence of the teasing he'd always engaged in. He felt both irritated and oddly nostalgic. He swallowed a lump in his throat and blurted, "I've got to go to the bathroom." He got up and hurried out so there wasn't any chance he'd start crying right there at the table.

"Thanks for the update on the BM," Dean called and Sam bit his lip to keep from bawling where he could still be heard.

He went to the bathroom and buried his face in his arms, trying to control himself. Tears flowed despite his best intentions, and it took him a few minutes to force them back under control. When he emerged, he could hear Dean and Uncle Bobby clearing up from dinner. He went upstairs and into Bobby's room where there was a phone on the bedside table. A plan had hatched while he'd sat in the bathroom, but he stopped on the threshold, staring. His dad's journal was lying open on the bed. He walked over and looked at it. There was a name, Missouri Mosely, and a Kansas phone number.

It was like it was fated that he find this out. He wouldn't even have to call Information.

He closed the door and walked back over to the phone. Picking it up, he took a deep breath and dialed. The phone only rang once, and then he heard a click and a voice. "Hello?" The voice was high and sweet, and sort of black Southern.

"Hi," he said, and his voice wobbled a little.

"Who is this?" she asked. "Are you okay, honey?"

"I'm fine. My name's Sam."

"Sam Winchester?" she asked, and Sam blinked. "Is that you, Sammy?"

"Sam," he repeated. "Not Sammy," he said. "But yeah, I'm Sam Winchester. How did you know?"

"Your father called me a couple of hours ago, Sam," she said. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Sam said. "I just –" To his extreme embarrassment, he sniffled.

"You're crying, honey. What is it?"

"I'm not crying," Sam said. "And everything's fine."

"Why did you call? Is your father delayed or something?"

"Not . . . I just wanted to know who you were. He didn't tell me who he was picking up or why."

"Oh, I see," she said in a knowing voice. "Well, I'm an old friend of your father's. I'm coming to help out with Dean, but if your dad wanted you to know the details, he would have told you."

"I know. I just . . . I don't know what's wrong with Dean. No one will tell me anything."

"Sometimes that happens when we're young, Sam. If it's any consolation, you do grow out of it. Eventually."

"Just like being short," Sam muttered.

She laughed. "Yes, just like that."

"How come my dad has never mentioned you before, if you're an old friend?"

"Probably because before this, he's only ever talked to me at the worst times of his life. I remind him of those times."

Sam blinked. "The worst times . . . so when Mom died?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And . . . and when Dean went missing?"

"Yes."

"But Dean's been found," Sam said. "That's not a bad thing."

"I know. It was kind of nice to get good news from John. Now, you should probably be off with your brother, shouldn't you? Getting acquainted again."

"Oh, we're acquainted. It's . . ." His voice quavered and he firmed it up. "It's like we were never apart, almost. Just . . ." His voice broke, and he took a deep, shuddering breath before saying, "He doesn't remember he's my brother."

"Oh, that sounds rough," she said. "But it won't be forever, Sam. You just hold on to that."

Sam sniffled again, to his everlasting humiliation. "How are you going to help?" he asked.

"I think we'd better wait to get into that till I'm there," she said. "I may not be able to help."

"Dad thinks you can, or he wouldn't be driving all the way to Kansas and back to bring you here."

"Your father is a determined man," she replied with a sigh. "I'm a psychic, Sam."

"Then why did you need to ask who I was?"

"Because I'm not omniscient. I can read thoughts, but not at this distance."

Sam nodded. "Right, because if you could do it from there, Dad wouldn't need to bring you here."

"Very smart," she said. "Well, I need to finish getting ready. I'll be seeing you tomorrow."

"Okay. Thanks for talking to me."

"No problem. Take care of your brother."

"Of course. Good bye."

The door opened as he hung up, and Uncle Bobby raised his eyebrows. "Who you talking to, Sam?"

"Miss Mosely. Or maybe Mrs. I don't know which."

"You called her?" Bobby demanded. He walked over and grabbed the journal, closing it and snapping it shut. "Sam!"

"What?" Sam asked. "I wanted to know who she was."

"What did she tell you?"

"That she's an old friend of dad's, that he only talks to her when things are really bad, and that she's a psychic who is coming here to help Dean."

"Oh, is that all?" Bobby asked sarcastically. "Are you planning on telling Dean?"

Sam considered the question, then nodded. "Yes, I am."

"Don't you think it might make him a little anxious?"

"I think he's already anxious," Sam said. He got up and walked out of the room. "I wish someone would tell me what's going on."

Dean was shuffling cards at the kitchen table when Sam got down there. He walked in and sat down. "I called Missouri Mosely," he said, and Dean looked up at him in surprise.

"You did? Why?"

"I wanted to know who she was," Sam said. "She's a psychic, and Dad thinks she can help you."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "A psychic?" he repeated. "Those aren't for real, are they?"

"Some are," Bobby said from the door, coming back into the kitchen. "Some are fakes, but it's nothing to worry about right now. She'll be here tomorrow afternoon. In the meantime, I'm going to skunk the two of you at poker."

"You're going to try, old man," Sam said.

"Big words, small fry."

"You two can duke it out all you want," Dean said, and both Bobby and Sam turned to him. "Well, someone's got to come in second."

* * *

John cursed himself as he pulled into a parking spot next to a truck. The closer he'd gotten to the turn off to the Roadhouse, the more his conscience had told him he should stop. It couldn't be long, Missouri expected him, but that was the perfect time to drop by. He had an excuse for leaving quickly. He slammed the Impala's door and strode into the building.

Ignoring the other occupants of the room, he walked straight up to where Ellen was wiping down the bar. She looked up as he approached, and her eyes widened. "John, I haven't seen you in nearly five years."

He shrugged. "Can I talk to you privately?" he asked.

Her eyes narrowed, and she nodded. "Becky, keep an eye on things, would you?" A girl who looked about twenty nodded and Ellen beckoned him towards the back rooms. "Come on up, John." John hesitated, and Ellen sighed. "Jo's staying over with a friend tonight," she assured him.

John was glad. He didn't really want to see Bill's daughter. His widow was hard enough to face. "Thanks," he said. They got upstairs into her sitting room, and John shut the door behind them. "I thought it was only fair to tell you, we found Dean."

She gave him an anxious, sympathetic look. "Where'd you find the body?" she asked.

John shook his head. "He was going to school with Sam in Georgia."

Ellen's jaw dropped. "What?"

John grinned at her, and he knew the expression had to look pretty damned foolish. "He's alive, Ellen. He's been in foster care in Georgia for all this time."

"Why didn't he try and find you, though?" she asked. "I know he had this number, and he must have had Bobby's."

John's giddiness dissipated. "He had amnesia," he said.

"John, be serious. That only happens in soap operas," Ellen replied. "What happened?"

John looked down. "He was kidnapped by a demon, Ellen," he said. "And he has spells carved into his skin. Bobby thinks one of them may be blocking his memory, because he still doesn't know who he is." He raised his eyes to hers. "He asked me to help him find his family."

She walked across to the small table of liquor she had set up in a corner and poured two shots. She handed one to him and downed the other. "Son of a gun. Why haven't you told him?"

"For fear that the demon did something else that might make him freak out and bolt if he does find out who we are and who he is." He sank into one of her chairs. "He's the same Dean, though. You remember how he was always so protective of Sammy?" She nodded. "Same thing now. The two of them started acting like brothers before they'd spent a week hanging out together."

She smiled and sat down across from him. "That doesn't surprise me. He always was an overly responsible kid. How's Sam taking it?"

"He's thrilled, of course, he figured it out a few days ago, I guess. They started spending time together in mid-December. Oddly enough, they did a hunt together."

"Why does that not shock me?" Ellen said, laughing. "John, this is amazing. Did you bring them with you?"

He shook his head. "No, I . . . I'm on my way to Lawrence to pick up Missouri." When Ellen raised an eyebrow, he elucidated. "The psychic I consulted after Mary died. We need desperately to know more about what happened to Dean in the two months the demon had him, and Dean just can't talk about it." He closed his eyes. "That kid has been through hell, Ellen."

"Where are they?"

"Bobby's," John said.

"Wait, did you say two months?" Ellen asked, her eyes going wide. "He was with a demon for two months?" John nodded. "What the hell for? Why did it keep him that long instead of killing him?" John felt the blood drain from his face, and Ellen shook her head, putting her shot glass down. "I'm sorry to be so blunt about it, John, but you know other hunters are going to ask that question. They're going to want to know what the demon did with him."

"I don't give a tinker's damn what other hunters want to know," John replied harshly. "My son is alive, he's the same caring, responsible kid he was five years ago, and . . ." He shook his head. "He's my boy, Ellen."

"I know," Ellen said softly. She put her hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. "I'm guessing you don't want this broadcast yet."

John shook his head. "Not yet," he replied. "I just thought – you put in so much effort on the search that it only seemed fair to tell you. And it didn't seem like the kind of news to pass over the phone."

"I appreciate it, John," she said, smiling at him. "You . . . will I see you around here a little bit from now on?"

"We'll see," he said,

She shrugged philosophically. "Well, thanks for coming by, and if you care to arrange it, I'd love to see both Sam and Dean again." Leaning against the wall, she crossed her arms. "Jo's aching to try out some fighting tricks she's learned from one of the hunters on Sam."

"Oh yeah?" he asked, a little startled that Ellen was letting her daughter learn any part of the trade.

She snorted. "Last time they saw each other, I guess, he whupped her butt, and she wants revenge."

"He's been beating up high school football stars, or so I gather. Not sure she wants to go there."

"That won't convince Jo," Ellen said.

John snorted. "No, probably not." He stood up. "Thanks for this," he said, holding out the empty shot glass. "I'd better go."

"Of course, John," she said, taking the glass and putting it aside. She put her hands on his shoulders and looked into his eyes. "You're always welcome."

John gave her a weak smile and went back out to the car. A couple of guys greeted him as he passed, but he gave them as little attention as he could. He had to get to Missouri and then back to Bobby's.

* * *

Sam spent Sunday morning with Dean, clearing out his room so that there was a little more space in there. Bobby had told them it was fine, so he wasn't worried about it, but Dean kept looking like he thought they were going to get in trouble.

"Look, Dean, if we're going to be here long enough to go to school, we need the room to be a little less congested, don't you think?"

"I guess, but it's Bobby's place."

"Uncle Bobby said it was okay," Sam said.

"You know, this is kind of a weird room," Dean commented.

"It's ghost and demon-proof," Sam replied. "I guess Dad wanted me to be in the safest place available or something."

"Weird." Dean looked up at the star-shaped fan. "Good ventilation, though."

"Yeah."

After they got that done, they went outside and did some hand to hand sparring. Dean was getting better by leaps and bounds, every day, but now that Sam thought about it, Dad had always called Dean a natural. Sam finally thought he had him pinned, but then Dean, cast and all, threw him off and pinned him instead. "Give up, squirt?"

Sam contemplated his options. "If I were really wanting to hurt you, I could get away, but since I'm not, uncle."

"Cop out," Dean grunted, but he stood up again and offered Sam a hand up. "Another go?"

"Do you hear that?" Sam asked.

Dean's eyes went distant, and he looked towards the entrance to the yard. "The Impala!" he said, and they headed as one towards the front of the house. The car pulled up just as they got there, and John got out, hurrying around to open the passenger door. Sam was a little startled by his father's sudden spurt of chivalry.

The person who got out was a heavyset black woman, wearing dark pants and a heavy red jacket. Bobby was on the porch, but she turned towards Sam and Dean. "Hello, boys," she said with a smile. "Let me get warmed up, Dean, and then we can get started. Sam, your friend will be here in a couple of minutes, so you might as well wait out here."

"Hi," Sam said, a little startled. "I . . ." He looked over at Dean. "I'll see you later," he said.

Dean glanced at the adults, who were all heading into the house. "I'll be along in a minute," he said, and he put an arm around Sam's shoulders and turned him around. "Sammy, don't feel bad, please. It's really not that I don't trust you."

Sam shrugged, and he looked up at Dean. "I know. You just want someone close to you who doesn't know all the things that have Dad so freaked out."

Dean blinked at him. "Thank you for understanding, Sammy. I know it's bugging you, but I really need it."

Sam saw Jeremy coming up towards the front of the house nervously. "My friend is here, and you probably ought to go inside."

Dean turned around. "He looks like a little kid," he said.

"He's older than me," Sam replied. "Fifteen, actually. Jeremy!" He finally seemed to see them and came running over. "Jeremy, this is Dean, Dean, this is Jeremy."

"Nice to meet you," Dean said with a distracted grin. "I'd better go. Have fun, Sammy."

He trotted off inside, and Jeremy said, "Wow, your brother's cool."

"Yeah," Sam said. "I –"

"Sam!" Bobby came out on the porch with a paper bag. "I made you some roast beef sandwiches if you're hungry."

Sam ran up to the porch, grabbed them, then joined Jeremy. "You want to go back out to the cave?"

"Yeah, the fort's no fun now that Trish found it." Jeremy kicked the stones in the driveway. "Actually, this place is pretty cool."

Sam looked around. "I lived here for three years before. I can show you around later. Let's go out to the cave." They set off together. "Did you get any lunch?" Sam asked.

"I told Mom I'd get it here so I could get away. Otherwise I might not have escaped for a couple more hours."

Sam opened the bag, which had been heavier than he'd expected. "We've got plenty," he said, showing Jeremy. Bobby'd included a couple of cans of soda and some hardboiled eggs. "Race you!"

They took off running, Sam using the exertion to get some of his emotion out. He hated being excluded, but he couldn't deny Dean anything. Not when he'd only just got him back.


	20. Chapter 20

Dean took off his coat and jacket slowly, hanging them on the hall tree next to Missouri's red jacket. He felt really weird about this, but she obviously had something going on. Sammy's friend had shown up just like she said. Bobby went past him to give Sammy his lunch, and Dean realized that his own hunger pangs had kind of died with the arrival of the psychic.

She and John were sitting in front of the fire in the living room. Someone had cleared away a lot of the books and papers that had covered the furniture in here, because it almost looked like a normal room, just a normal room that no one had dusted in ten years. Dean walked in nervously, not sure what to expect. He started to sit down, but Missouri got to her feet as he came in.

"Come here, Dean, let me look at you," she said. He stopped and turned towards her. "You sure have grown up handsome, and you were such a goofy-looking kid."

John looked startled and turned his head. "Missouri?"

"You . . . you know what I looked like as a kid?" he asked. "Is that because you're psychic?"

John started to nod, but Missouri shook her head. "No, honey, it's not. I saw you when you were little."

"Missouri, we talked about this," John said in a strangled voice, and Missouri laid a gentle hand on his arm.

"I know that, John. Dean, have a seat, I've got something to tell you."

Dean glanced at John, who looked utterly freaked out, and he walked over to sit down. "What?"

"Do you know that some of the marks on you may contain a spell that's blocking your memory?" she asked him.

"Yeah," he said. "John and Bobby told me."

"Good." She leaned closer. "Clearly the demon who took you didn't want you to find your family, or he wouldn't have bothered."

"Right," Dean said, though he hadn't thought about it that way.

"So it's just possible, and Bobby and John think it's likely, that he put something else on you to make it so that if you ever did find out, you'd wig out and bolt – or worse."

Dean sank backwards in the seat, his mind stunned by that simple statement. "Yeah, it's . . . it's entirely possible," he said. "I know he . . . he . . ." He shuddered, repressing the memories that threatened to surge forward.

"It's all right, Dean. Relax," she said, and Dean bit his lip. She gazed at him compassionately. "So, the point of all this is that we know who you are, but we're afraid to tell you for fear of causing that to happen."

Dean looked at John, whose eyes had gone very wide. "Is that true, sir?" John nodded, but he didn't say anything. He looked pretty emotionally choked up, and Dean wondered why. "Okay, I guess that makes sense, but it's kind of frustrating."

"Well, that's part of why we need to know what the demon did to you, Dean," she said. "Once we figure that out, we might be able to take these spells off you, and the minute we can do that, we'll tell you who you are."

Dean bit his lip and looked down at his hands. "Okay. What do we have to do?"

She stood up, so he looked up at her. "I'm getting a little bit from you already," she said, and Dean grimaced. "Mostly just that you're nervous and kind of worried . . . about me?" She smiled at him. "Sweetheart, don't you worry about me."

Dean shrugged. "What's in my head is pretty freaky," he said. "I don't . . . it's bad enough that I have to have it, I don't really want to share it with anyone."

"It will be all right, Dean," she said. "Stand up and let me take your hands." Dean got to his feet, and, feeling self conscious, he put his hands out. She took them firmly in a warm, dry grasp, and her eyes went a little distant. Dean watched her face lose color and wondered if she was going to faint. He thought maybe he should pull away, but after several seconds, she let out a shaky little sigh and released his hands. "My God, you poor, poor boy," she murmured, sinking down into a seat, clasping her hands together. "John, I need something to drink."

He looked up, and Dean noticed that Bobby was sort of hovering in the doorway. Bobby nodded and disappeared. Dean sat back down, watching Missouri. Under that calm exterior, she seemed really upset, and he found himself rubbing his left hand against his cast.

Bobby came back with a can of soda and handed it to John, who passed it on to Missouri. "Thank you," she said, and she opened it.

"You want something stronger?" Bobby asked

She looked up after taking a sip and shook her head. "Not now." Turning, she said, "Dean, how are you feeling?"

Dean shrugged. "I didn't notice anything," he said. "You . . . are you okay?"

"I told you not to worry about me. Just give me a second to pull myself together, and we can try again."

"That wasn't everything you needed?" he asked anxiously.

"I'm afraid not. Most of what I just got was the last several years. I'm going to have to go a little deeper to get to what we need to look at."

"Maybe you should be sitting down when we try again," Dean said, giving John and Bobby a worried look. Bobby took hold of a chair by the window and pushed it close to the one Dean was sitting in.

Missouri looked up. "That will do nicely," she said. She took another swallow of the soda, then stood up and walked over. She sat down and gazed into Dean's eyes. "Dean, I am old enough to be your grandmother, and I have been seeing inside people's heads for all that time. Just relax. I can take it."

Dean grimaced, but held his tongue. He doubted she'd met many people who'd been tortured by demons. At least, he hoped she hadn't. He stuck his fingers under the edge of the cast and scratched his wrist.

"Stop that, Dean," she said, and he moved his hand, giving her a slightly guilty look. "All right, let's do this again. Just take a deep breath, let it out, and let your mind wander. You don't need to think about anything in particular."

Dean nodded, took a deep breath and held out his hands. She took them, and this time her grip seemed a little tighter, more determined. After a few seconds, her eyes closed, and he saw that her eyeballs were moving back and forth, like in REM sleep. He wondered what she was seeing, but then a sense of panic started to build in him, and he knew she'd gotten where she wanted to go. Her hold on him grew tighter and tighter, and he could see that her breath was coming more quickly.

"John?" he exclaimed. "I don't think she's okay."

"She said not to worry, Dean," John said.

Dean began to have images. Flashes of information that he wasn't sure he could cope with. Some of his memories were peeking out, but not the ones from before he was kidnapped. He could feel himself being strapped face down, he could hear the chanting and feel the knife slicing into his back. He wrenched his hands free of Missouri's and got up, stumbling backwards away from the chair and her.

_Dean felt the hand on his back, stroking down the muscle to the side of his spine. He shivered, not sure what to expect. "Hold still, Dean," said the voice of the man with the yellow eyes. "I need lots of space for this." He didn't understand what the man meant._

" _Let me go!" he shouted, fighting against the bindings. Abruptly, his whole body was forced flat – so flat he felt like he could barely get air in to breathe. Then the hand went away, and he felt something pierce his skin and start to cut. The pain was indescribable, and he screamed till he was hoarse, all the while sure hands were slicing into his back, one cut after another. His blood was dripping down the sides of his body. At first it tickled as it ran, but then that sensation was lost in the agony of the cuts that covered his back. He couldn't struggle, he couldn't even twitch. All he could do was scream until his voice would make no more noise, till it hurt to try._

* * *

Bobby watched transfixed while John tried to pull Dean out of wherever he'd gone. He guessed it was a flashback, but he couldn't be sure. Then he noticed Missouri gasping, her hands gripping the arms of her chair as she struggled to breathe. Bobby darted forward and pushed her head between her knees before she could pass out.

After a couple of minutes, she pushed at him, and he backed off. "Did Dean's pulling away make that happen?" he asked, altogether unsure of what he'd just witnessed.

"No," she said. "I was trapped. Those memories are as powerful as they are terrible." She shook her head, looking over at Dean. "He pulled away?"

"Yeah. Pretty spectacularly, actually. He fell down and started shaking. John's trying to pull him out of it."

John looked up at the sound of his name. "Bobby, he's not coming out," he said, and his eyes were streaming. "Missouri, what happened?"

"I believe I may have triggered a memory he didn't have conscious recall of," she said. "John . . . that boy has been through terrible things."

"I know," John snarled, and Missouri flinched back slightly from his tone.

Bobby got down on his knees beside them and put his hand on Dean's shoulder. "Dean!" he said in a clear voice. "I want you to look at me." The boy didn't move, he just continued to tremble. "Dean?" Bobby tried shaking him, first gently and then with a little more force. Bobby even brought out a piece of ice from the freezer. Nothing any of them did seemed to get through to him, but after about ten eternal minutes, his stiff body relaxed, and he seized John's shirt in a death grip, burying his face in his father's chest and weeping as if his heart would break.

Bobby helped Missouri to her feet and led her into the kitchen, returning to shut the door so that if Sam and his friend came inside, they couldn't just walk in on Dean and John. He paused in the doorway for a long moment, watching John rock his nearly adult son in his arms. Rage boiled inside him without outlet. He shut the door, making sure the latch caught solidly, and went back to Missouri.

She had left the kitchen, apparently in search of pen and paper, because she returned with a pile of lined paper and a pencil. She began to write rapidly, and rather than asking her what she was doing, Bobby made her a cup of coffee. She looked up when he put it in front of her, murmured her thanks, and went back to writing. She put the first page aside and started on the next. Bobby picked up the first and read it.

> _Room had dark walls, but lots of light. Dean face down on a table of some kind, not comfortable, not soft, bound. Demon chanted as he cut, some kind of spell, couldn't understand words. Cutting was quick, deliberate. First painful episode – shortly after abduction is my impression._
> 
> _General grasp of situation – demon would cut design with a blade dipped in black, viscous fluid, then he would pack wounds with some kind of substance that burned when it entered the wounds. Then he would seal them shut somehow – not stitches. Wounds would reopen, be repacked, resealed._

There was more of it, and she was still writing. She included a phonetic transcription of what she could remember of the chant, and Bobby mouthed his way through it, hearing the words in his head. He didn't want to utter it aloud for fear of it actually doing something – or of Dean hearing it and freaking out anew.

Dean and John came into the kitchen, John with his arm around his son's shoulders as he guided him to the basement stairs and downwards. Once they were out of sight and earshot, Missouri looked up at Bobby. "Where are they going?"

Bobby shrugged. "I have a demon-proof room down there. It's where Sam and Dean sleep."

Her eyes widened, and she sat back from her work. "I think that's all I've got," she said. "I think I may need to sleep on it to see if anything else comes to me, but that's the gist." She sighed, passing the partially filled second page across. "And I don't think it's all by any means."

John's footsteps could be heard on the stairs, and he entered the kitchen looking drained and despairing. "What the hell happened, Missouri?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Somehow, accessing a memory he's never consciously recalled before triggered a flashback. The bastard wants him, John. He wants him bad, and I don't know why."

"What bastard?" John asked, coming over to sit down. "Who?"

Missouri reached over and took John's hand. "I didn't want to say this in front of him," she said. "But I thought I recognized the energy when I saw him, and once I touched him I knew."

Bobby wasn't sure what she was getting at, but John's eyes widened. "You . . . knew? What did you know?"

Missouri's hand tightened on John's, and Bobby watched them with growing surmise. "The evil that marked him is the same evil that killed Mary."

John buried his face in his hands, and Bobby could see his shoulders shaking. He sat down himself. "Missouri?"

"Yes," she said, but her attention was still on John.

"You used the present tense. 'Wants.' Was that a slip of the tongue, or did you mean it?" John's body froze, and he looked up, waiting for the answer.

Missouri didn't respond immediately. She appeared to be looking inward. "It was an impression I got," she murmured finally. "I know he wanted him then."

"What for?" John burst out. "Why? He was in Sammy's nursery when he killed Mary. Why come back later for Dean? Why come back at all? What the hell does he want from us?"

"I don't know, John," Missouri said. "I wrote down everything I could remember, and it's possible that more will shake loose after I sleep."

"Let me take you to the room I cleaned out for you," Bobby said.

"Thank you."

"I'll be back in a minute, John."

John had picked up the sheets of lined paper and was reading. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot, and Bobby didn't have to wonder how he was taking things. For once he was wearing his heart on his sleeve. He led Missouri to one of the rooms on the second floor. It had a bed and a dresser, and the sheets were fresh, but otherwise it was lined with books. He had to admit it was a bit dusty, but there weren't any books on the bed or cluttering up the bedside table.

"Thank you," she said, and he left her at the door.

When he got downstairs, he found John reading through her notes, the page in his left hand, his right hand thumping the table over and over again. He walked across the room and flipped a switch that John had evidently forgotten about. Or perhaps he thought Bobby had disconnected it. He'd installed a baby monitor in the panic room years before, when Sam had started sleeping down there, and he'd never taken it out. Since the microphone in the panic room didn't run on batteries, it was still operational.

No sound came over it, so he assumed all was well. He settled down across from John. "You gotten all the way through that?" he asked, gesturing at the notes Missouri had made. John nodded, not looking up. "It gives me something to go on."

"What do you suppose it was, Bobby? Why was the demon in Sam's nursery to begin with?"

"I don't have the foggiest clue," Bobby said. "What I want to know is if there was chanting every time, and if it was always the same."

John shook his head. He dropped the paper on the table, his head lowered practically to his chest. "You'd better get these out of sight. We don't want either Dean or Sam seeing them."

"True enough," Bobby said, and he picked them up. The sounds of the chant were pulling at his brain, and while he was in the library to tuck the pages away, he grabbed a couple of books. He walked back into the kitchen and started flipping through, then stopped, staring. "I found one of them," he said, and John's head came up. "John this bastard is pulling from more than one culture."

John waved that consideration away. "What does it mean?" he demanded. "Do you know what it means?"

Bobby nodded grimly. "But it poses more questions than it answers."

"How so?" John asked urgently.

Bobby got up and grabbed the file of photos, pulling out the one he wanted, the one of Dean's back. Pointing to the upper glyph, he flipped the book around so John could compare the image on the page with the photograph. "This one is a powerful protective spell against demons," he said. "I wasn't looking for anything I'd regard as positive, so I didn't even check for it."

John leaned closer and nodded. "I can see the . . . but what would a demon be doing putting a spell of protection against demons on him? And what kind of protection? Obviously he could still hurt him."

Bobby shrugged, then pulled the book back towards himself. He flipped to the next page and his jaw dropped. "Son of a bitch," he muttered. "The plot thickens."

"What?" John stood up and came around. Bobby flipped the photo back and compared the lower of the two glyphs to the one on the next page. John took in a startled breath. "Those two match," he said, leaning down over Bobby's shoulder. "At least the cuts do, like with the other one. What is it, Bobby? What does it mean?"

Since the text was in Aramaic, it wasn't exactly shocking that John couldn't read it. Bobby cleared his throat. "It's some kind of protection against the messengers of light," he said.

"Messengers of light?" John repeated. "What the hell does that mean?"

Bobby looked up at him, his stomach roiling with anxiety and confusion. "I think, nowadays, we mostly call them angels."

A loud cry came over the baby monitor, and John leapt to his feet and ran downstairs. Bobby listened to the quiet reassurances, and the sound of the springs as Dean lay down once more. He looked down at the book on the table. It was a copy of an ancient grimoire, according to the Medieval French notes at the front of it, copied by some apprentice at the behest of his master. There were spells drawn on the covers, both inside and out, that were meant to maintain the thing's integrity, and it was in astonishing condition for a book over seven hundred years old. But . . . protection against demons? And angels?

Evidently the demon, whoever he was, had wanted to keep Dean all to himself. Bobby scowled down at the book. That only left one question, but it was a big one. Why?

* * *

Sam left Jeremy at the fork in the path and hurried back to Bobby's. It was getting towards dark, and he knew that neither Bobby nor his father would want him out too late at this time of year. It got cold way too quick when the sun went down.

The house was really quiet when he let himself in the back door. Dad and Bobby were in the library, their backs to him as they looked at something on the table. Dean was nowhere to be seen, and Missouri was cooking in the kitchen. "Wipe your feet, Sammy," she said.

"It's Sam," he said, and he wiped his feet.

"I've known you since you were six months old, little man," she said. "But Sam it is, if you insist."

"What are you making?"

"Cajun chicken," she said. "With peas, carrots and twice-baked potatoes."

"Wow." Sam walked into the kitchen, sniffing the aromatic scents in the air. "Can you give me the recipes?"

She looked down at him, her lips quirking into a wry grin. "We'll see. In the meantime, why don't you go check up on Dean? He should be getting up soon, I think."

"He's asleep?"

She nodded, so Sam trotted down the basement stairs and across to the bedroom. Dean was lying on the bed on his back, staring at the ceiling, his eyes clearly open. He looked like he could do with the sleep he wasn't getting at the moment. "Hey, Dean," Sam said. "How are you?"

Dean didn't move. "Great, Sammy," he said, but his tone was less than convincing, as was his appearance. His eyes were sunken, and there were dark bags under them.

"Was what you guys did hard?" Sam asked, walking over and sitting on the bed next to Dean.

His brother looked up at him with a faint smile. "Hard isn't the word, Sammy," he said. "But it's survivable."

"Missouri's making dinner," Sam said. "Cajun chicken and twice-baked potatoes."

"Yeah, I've been smelling it for awhile now," Dean said. "Did you and Jeremy have fun?"

Sam shrugged. "We hung out at the cave for awhile. He thinks you're my cousin, but I told him we're close enough to be brothers. I figure that's a good enough story to tell folks at school."

Dean grinned. "I like it. Do you have any cousins?"

"Not so far as I know."

"But . . . I'm awesomely cool," Dean pointed out, and Sam rolled his eyes at him. Dean laughed and propped himself up on his elbows. "Seriously, why didn't you ever mention me when you were here before? Your super cool older cousin?"

Sam grimaced and considered the question. "Well, maybe I didn't meet you again till after. If I hadn't seen you in a long time, I might not have said anything, and when we ran into each other again, we just took up where we left off. You can call Dad Uncle John, and we can say your parents are dead and my dad sort of adopted you."

Dean nodded slowly, and Sam was glad to see that the idea met with his approval since he'd already put it into action. He'd have looked like a real goober if he'd had to tell Jeremy that they weren't really cousins after already backtracking from saying they were brothers.

"Sammy?" Dean said.

"Yeah?"

"If I told you to run like hell and not look back, would you?"

Sam blinked at him. "What do you mean?"

Dean sat up and scooted to sit against the headboard. "Just what I said," he replied. "If I told you to run like hell and –"

"I heard you," Sam interjected. "But why would you do that?" Dean shrugged, looking away. Sam gave him a puzzled look. "You have to have a reason for asking."

Dean bit his lip and sighed. "The guy who took me is a really bad guy," he said, his expression sober. "If he ever shows up again, I don't want you to try to stop him or do anything. I just want you to get the hell out of there."

"I couldn't leave you behind," Sam protested. "You wouldn't leave me behind, would you?"

"Of course not!" Dean replied instantly. "But that's not the point, Sammy."

"It is the point," Sam said. "If you wouldn't leave me behind, why would you expect me to leave you?"

"Because I'm older, and bigger," Dean said.

"And I'm the better fighter," Sam retorted. "You pinned me today, but don't think that makes any difference. I'm still better, with more training."

"He's a demon, Sammy!" Dean growled at him. "Hand to hand isn't much help against a guy who can pin you to the ground with a gesture."

"I don't care!" Sam shouted. "I know more about how to fight demons off than you do!"

"Sammy!" Dean exclaimed with a warning note that Sam remembered from years ago.

"I would never leave you behind, Dean. Never! Why would you ask me to?"

"Because if he got you, he could make me do anything!" Dean blurted, and they both stopped, staring at each other in shock.

Sam took in a deep breath, trying to control his emotions. "What do you think he might make you do?" he asked, and his voice sounded very small to him.

Dean shrugged violently. "I don't know, Sammy. All I know is that he did an awful lot of stuff to me, and I wasn't supposed to die at the end of it." He shuddered. "Sammy, promise me. If I tell you to run, promise me you will."

"Dean!" Sam protested. "How can I promise that?"

"It's simple," Dean said, his eyes filled with intense desperation. "You say two words. 'I promise.' Then you're done."

"Dean?" Sam begged. "Don't make me promise you that."

"Sammy, if he takes me, I'll need you on the outside to get me back."

Sam gulped. "That I can promise. I will get you back, no matter what happens to you, I will always get you back."


	21. Chapter 21

John leaned on the kitchen table, his head bowed. Dean and Sam didn't seem to have anything more to say just then, but the springs on the bed did not indicate that they were getting up. How could he hope to protect his sons from danger when they were so willing to enter it to protect each other? A man shouldn't feel weighed down by such promises passing between his children.

"Hell," Bobby muttered. "I somehow doubt that was in our demon's plans."

"I don't give a damn," John said. "So, do I let them go to school tomorrow?"

Bobby gave him a dubious look. "Well, it's not like you can lock them up in the panic room for the rest of their lives," he said. John blinked, considering Bobby's words. The idea was enormously tempting, especially when it came to Dean, and it must have showed, because Bobby glowered at him. "You can't. I won't let you."

John shook his head. "I hate this!"

"Of course you do," Missouri said. "They're coming, and dinner is ready. Will you two set the table, or do I have to do everything?"

The woman had some kind of power in her voice. John found himself pulling plates and glasses out of the cupboard while Bobby got the silverware from the drawer. By the time the boys were upstairs, they had the table set and the milk poured.

"That smells wonderful, Miss Mosely," Sam said.

"You can call me Missouri, boys," she said. "Let's eat." John sat down with Missouri, his boys and Bobby, but before anybody could grab for the food, Missouri cleared her throat. "We need to say grace." Bobby and Sam bent their heads obediently. John followed suit a second later, with Dean a distant fourth. "Thank you, oh Lord, for bringing us all together for this meal. Keep us safe in Your loving hands. Through Christ our Lord, Amen."

They all started to eat, and John found himself watching his sons again. It was becoming a favorite pastime. He wondered if there would ever come a day when he'd find their banter annoying, as he so often had in years past. Of course, the closest they'd yet come to a real argument was Sam's refusal to promise to run. John realized abruptly that he had avoided making that promise. He'd promised to get Dean back, but not to run away.

He'd have to find some way to address the issue without letting on that they'd listened in to that intensely personal conversation over the baby monitor.

After dinner, the boys cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher. Bobby and John went into the library, though they couldn't get right to work because of Sam and Dean just in the next room. Then the boys went upstairs to watch TV. Bobby flipped open the books and pulled out the photos preparatory to going to work.

John turned to where Missouri was still putting the food away in the fridge. "Missouri?"

"Yes?"

"Do we need another session?"

She put the last covered dish away and turned towards him. "Yes, John, we do. At least one, maybe more." She walked over. "In fact, I've been meaning to say something about that. Dean's going to say no, so you'd better be thinking about what you want to say to him about it."

"Because of the flashback?" John asked.

"No, John," she said, shaking her head and giving him a look like he was being particularly dense. "Because he's worried about me. Responsibility runs very deep in his make up."

John grimaced. "That's my fault."

"It would have no matter what, John. He's your eldest boy. It's only natural."

"So, we need to give him a reason to agree," Bobby said.

"Nothing easier," John replied. "I'll tell him it will help keep Sammy safe. It has the added benefit of being true."

* * *

Dean took extra care in getting dressed in the morning. He knew he was going to see Trish again today, and who knew how many other pretty girls. He wanted to give them a good first impression.

"Are you done yet?" Sammy yelled from outside the bathroom. "I need to get ready, too!"

"Just a minute."

"What are you, a girl?"

Dean opened the door. "No, just gorgeous," he said.

Sammy rolled his eyes. "So you have to primp for twenty minutes?"

Dean shook his head. "No, I have to tone it down a little or I blind people."

Sam shoved him out of the way and pushed past, slamming the door shut behind him. Dean went up the stairs into the smell of sizzling sausage and yeasty biscuits. He could really get used to this. It was Bobby doing the cooking, and Dean wondered if he did this when it was just him. Didn't much matter. Right now it was great.

"Your father and Missouri are sleeping in," Bobby said without turning around.

"Just me, Bobby," Dean said. "Sammy's still downstairs."

Bobby turned around and blinked at him. "Right. Anyway, I'll be taking you to school, like we planned."

"We didn't wash the car yesterday!" Dean exclaimed.

"No big deal," Bobby said. "It's kind of a drive into town. I figure you can take the bus home, like Sammy always did."

"Sure," Dean said. "No problem." He hated school buses, but beggars couldn't be choosers. "I wish I could get my license."

"Why haven't you?"

"The doctors said I needed to go six months without a total flashback before I could even apply," he said.

"I see." Bobby put a plate down in front of him, and Dean dug in. A few minutes later, Sammy came upstairs and started eating, too.

"John and Missouri are still asleep, but Bobby's taking us to school." Sam shrugged, continuing to eat without speaking. Mornings took some people like that.

When it came time to get in the car, they had to cram Sam into the backseat, and Dean was glad to be able to claim priority by height. Bobby dropped them off in front of a big brick building, and they headed into the office.

Sam appeared to be an old hand at starting at a new school by himself. He introduced Dean, and they were each taken by a member of the office staff to figure out their placement. Naturally, Sammy got the young, cute one, and he got the old matron. A plaque on her desk read _Mrs. Standish_. She took down his basic biographical info, and looked up at him. "So, you're a senior?"

He shook his head. "Nope, a junior. I was in the hospital for six months when I was twelve, missed a bunch of school, so I'm a year behind."

The familiar softening expression made him feel slightly uncomfortable, but it usually helped him out of trouble from time to time. He wasn't above using it. They got his regular subjects organized, then she said, "Well, it looks like you have room for an elective sixth period. You have a choice of drama or advanced auto shop, so I guess it will have to be drama."

"Why not auto shop?" Dean said earnestly.

"You have to have taken two years of beginning shop to qualify."

Dean shook his head. "I've worked at a garage for two years, and I'm helping Bobby Singer out in his salvage yard."

She raised her eyebrows. "Come by at lunch and I'll let you know what we can arrange for you."

"Thanks," he said. Sammy was just getting done, too, so he said, "What do you have first?"

"English," Sammy said. "You?"

"Math. My favorite."

They separated and headed to their classes. Dean's math teacher was an old codger who had an unexpectedly bouncy personality. He was allowed to slip into his seat without a mass introduction, for which he was enormously grateful. Trish wasn't in this class, but there were plenty of girls to wink at, so he felt right at home. Math gave way to English, which gave way to history, and then they were all set free for lunch. He was just heading for the cafeteria to see what kind of slop they served when he heard his name called from behind.

Turning, he saw Trish walking towards him. "Dean, hi!" she exclaimed. "You want to join us for lunch?" She had three boys with her, and none of them looked thrilled to have him join them. He didn't much care, and he didn't much want to eat alone. He'd already seen Sammy with his little friend Jeremy, and he wasn't going to try and horn in on them. They were far enough apart in age that hanging out at school would be kind of weird, anyway. Not that he'd care, but Sam had seemed to avoid him those last couple of weeks when they were still in school in Fort William.

"Sure," he said, earning himself the enmity of at least one of the guys she had with her.

"These are Jack, Keith and Mike."

After they'd all selected their brand of slop, they sat at a table in the cafeteria. "So," Keith said. "Two new kids in one day. You connected with the doofus over there?"

Dean glanced up and narrowed his eyes at Keith. "You mean the one sitting with the little blond kid?"

"Yeah," Keith said.

"He's my cousin," Dean said, and he gave Keith a look that ought to warn him to stay off. "Sam Winchester."

Mike turned to look. "Him? I didn't know he was back in town. He beat the crap out of my brother a couple of times." He gave Keith a meaningful look. "You know, the one whose brother was grabbed by some psycho."

Keith's eyes widened. "Oh." He glanced back at Sammy again, and his expression showed a little more respect.

"The blond kid is Trish's brother," Jack said.

Dean turned to her. "Really? So you're living over next to Bobby's place?"

She nodded. "Been there a couple of months. So it's your cousin who built that goofy little fort in the hills next to our property."

Dean shrugged. "I guess. He lived here for about three years awhile back."

"I suppose that means we take the same bus back home," Trish said, and all three guys got sour looks. "Maybe you can walk me home."

"Sure," Dean said with a grin, and she twinkled at him. Things were looking up.

* * *

Most of Sam's old acquaintances were firmly ensconced in their current friendships. He hadn't really clicked with anybody back then, too angry and freaked out about Dean. It was funny, though, watching Alan Grier gaze fearfully at him. He was at least six inches taller than Sam, and bigger all around without being fat, but he clearly remembered what Sam was like when he was pushed too far.

"Sam, why do all the bullies look at you like that?" Jeremy asked. They'd worked out to have two classes together already, which was cool so far as Sam was concerned.

"What do you mean?" Sam asked.

"They all act like they're afraid of you, even the older guys."

Sam snorted. "That's because I didn't take any crap when I was here before," he said. "I was pissed off already when I got here, and when they pushed me, I pushed back." He glanced around to see if Jeremy had anyone in mind and noticed Dean sitting at a table with three other guys and Trish. "Looks like Dean's met your sister."

Jeremy turned around and grimaced. "Great. Maybe you'd better tell him to stay away. She's kind of . . ." He shrugged.

"Kind of what?" Sam asked, mildly alarmed.

"The guys who hang around her get really stupid," he said. "They do whatever she wants them to do."

"What do you mean?"

"You know, she says go pants some freshman, and they do it. She says steal a teacher's book, they do it. Then they get in trouble when they get caught, and she smiles sweetly and says she doesn't know a thing about it. Even my parents are fooled most of the time."

Sam glanced over at her. "Dean won't get stupid," he said confidently.

"I still think you should warn him."

"We'll see."

* * *

Phys ed was right after lunch. Dean left Trish's little group with the feeling that they were all a little immature. Most kids his age seemed immature to him, though. He sighed and went to the locker room where he expected to be told to sit the day out between his cast and the fact that he didn't have anything to change into.

"Hunter?" called a male voice. "Front and center."

Dean sauntered over and said, "That's me."

"Here," the coach said, holding out a pair of bright green sweats and a white t-shirt with a green cougar on the front of it. "You can use these today."

Dean took the small pile and walked over to the rows of lockers. He pulled off his tennies and his jeans and put the sweats on. He hung the jeans and his jacket in a locker, tossed the white t-shirt on the bottom of the locker, and sat down to put his shoes back on.

"You not going to change into the shirt?" the guy next to him asked.

"I don't do white t-shirts," Dean said. He wondered if Coach Jennings had even noticed his cast. The long sleeve of his dark shirt might have concealed it sufficiently to fool him.

"Coach Jennings won't like that. He's got a real thing about street clothes."

Dean shrugged and finished tying his laces. He slammed the locker door shut and started to follow the other kids out of the room. There were still some guys changing, and the coach was hanging out in his office. Dean had to go past the big window into the office to get to the door out of the locker room into the gym. Before he reached it, he heard that voice again. "Hunter!" Dean turned around. "You going to finish dressing out?"

"I have," Dean said.

"Hunter, come over here." Dean walked over to him, ready for a dressing down. He pulled up the sleeve to reveal his cast, and he saw the Coach's eyes flit to it, but he didn't seem to care. "Where's the white t-shirt I gave you?" the coach asked.

Dean shrugged. "In the locker."

"Why didn't you put it on?"

Dean grimaced. "Coach Jennings, can we talk privately? In your office?"

"We can talk after class. Dress out and get into the gym."

Dean shook his head. "We need to talk now, sir," he said as politely as he could.

"I can give you a zero for the day, Hunter, if that's what you want."

Dean studied the man's face and then sighed. "Whatever." He turned and started back towards the gym.

"If you don't dress out, then you don't play," the coach said.

Dean stopped dead in his tracks, shrugged, and went back to the locker. Coach Jennings returned to his office, and Dean saw him fiddling with some paperwork. Dean changed out of the sweats, put his jeans back on and grabbed his jacket. As he stood up, he picked up the sweats and the t-shirt so he could turn them back in. Coach Jennings came out of the office, looking pissed. Dean couldn't help but notice that the direction of travel for his fellow students had reversed itself. They were developing quite an audience. He so didn't need this.

"What do you think you're doing, Hunter?" Coach Jennings demanded.

"If I'm not going to play, then there's no reason for me to wear the sweats, either," Dean said. "Can I have a pass to the office?"

"All I'm asking you to do is dress out, Hunter. What's so hard about that?"

"I'd be happy to tell you – privately," Dean said, glancing around at the crowd. "Otherwise, I'd like a pass to the office, please."

"What do you need to go to the office for?" Jennings asked.

Dean was getting really angry by this point. He gave Jennings a tight grin. "Because you're an insensitive dick." Jennings' face turned purple, and Dean heard an excited whisper run around the room. "I'm trying to do this the right way here, dude, and you're not letting me. If you won't give me a pass, I'm just going to walk my ass over to the office anyway. It's not like you can stop me." He paused, waiting.

"Everyone out," Jennings ordered, turning his back on Dean.

Shrugging, Dean dropped the sweats and t-shirt on the bench and left the locker room. No doubt a call would reach the office before he did, but he was secure on the moral high ground here. He walked into the office and the matronly lady looked soberly at him. "Are we having a bad day?" she asked. He wanted to tell her that he didn't know what kind of day she was having, but his was kind of mixed.

"Do I have a counselor?" he asked.

"Of course," she said. "The junior class counselor is Mr. Grimes."

"Is he available?"

"He's teaching calculus this period."

Dean closed his eyes. "School nurse?" he asked.

"Are you not feeling well?"

"Is there a school nurse?" he asked.

She sighed. "Not today. She's here on Tuesdays, Thursdays and half the day on Fridays."

"So I guess people had better not get sick on Mondays and Wednesdays," he muttered.

"That's about the shape of it," she said.

An older man in a pair of slacks and an open-necked white dress shirt walked out of a side office. "Is this Mr. Hunter?" he asked.

Dean looked over at him. "Yes sir," he said.

"Why don't you come into my office. I'm Mr. Mitchell, the principal."

Dean sighed and followed him into the little room. Mr. Mitchell closed the door behind him and said, "Have a seat, young man." Dean sat down and tried to look like a model student. Mr. Mitchell sat behind his desk and leaned towards him. "I just spoke to Coach Jennings, and he said there was a little problem with you dressing out today?"

Dean grimaced. "I really tried to handle it the right way, sir, but Coach Jennings wouldn't let me talk to him privately."

"Okay, well, we're private here. Why don't you see if you can make me understand?"

Dean looked down at his hands. "It's kind of hard to explain," Dean said. "Or rather it's easy to explain, I just don't like talking about it."

"What was the problem with the shirt?" Mitchell asked. "Coach said you didn't have a problem with the sweats, just the shirt."

Dean moistened his lips. "There's a couple of problems. First, I don't change shirts in front of anyone. Ever. Second, I don't wear white t-shirts. Ever."

"Can you help me understand why?"

Dean shrugged. "I have . . . scars . . . bad ones . . . all over my torso," he said. "Big keloid things, and they're not . . . skin-colored. I sweat at all in a white shirt, and it's all there, plain as day."

Mr. Mitchell blinked at him. "And that would be why you don't change in front of people either, I suppose?" he asked.

Dean nodded. "I can switch classes, if I have to. Is there anything else I can take that period?"

"I don't know," Mitchell replied. "But I'd rather see if we can't resolve this." He looked over at the computer. "According to this, you're eighteen, but do you mind if I call your parents?"

Dean shook his head. "My uncle," he said. "John Winchester. My parents are . . . they're dead."

"Oh, I see," Mitchell said. "There's no phone number given here. What is the number?"

Dean shrugged again. "I honestly don't know. We're staying at Singer's Salvage, but we've only been there a couple of days, and I didn't think to ask for the number." Sammy would know, but he wasn't having anyone call him out of class for this.

"Oh, I can get that from the phone book. Would you mind waiting in the front office?"

Dean got up and walked out of the room. He sat down and looked out the window, watching the cars go by on the road. Maybe he should just tell John he'd study for a high school equivalency exam and then he could skip out on the whole school thing.

After about five minutes, Mr. Mitchell emerged from the office. "Doris, give Dean a pass to the library for the rest of the period. Dean, I'll talk to Coach Jennings tonight and straighten everything out. You won't have any more problems."

Dean stood up and thanked him, privately figuring that Mitchell was an optimist and Jennings would have it in for him the rest of the time they were here. Mitchell disappeared into his office again, and Dean walked over to Doris. She handed him a pass, and said, "You didn't stop by at lunch."

Dean blinked at her. "I'm sorry, I forgot."

"It's okay. Your sixth period is all set up as auto shop, so that's Room 8B, out behind the school."

Dean grinned. "Thanks a lot."

"Now, behave yourself," she said.

"I always try," he said with a straight face.

"Go on with you!" she said, laughing.

He went to the library where he decided to be a good little boy, though no one here would recognize it as such. He looked up a book on paranormal studies and sat down to read up on spooks. The bell rang, sending him on to chemistry, where he was paired up with a short girl with glasses. He wished he could avoid chemistry, but it seemed to be his doom. Maybe he could get Megan to do the stuff involving fire. Fortunately, his first day was all book work, so he went up after class. "Mr. Thompson?" he said.

The teacher was working at his desk, marking papers or something. "Yes, Dean?" he said, looking up.

Dean grimaced. He'd been through this more than once with previous teachers, but it was always hard to talk about it. "I thought I should let you know, I . . . I have kind of a phobia of fire."

Mr. Thompson's eyebrows went up. "When you say phobia, what do you mean?"

Dean shrugged. "I just really don't handle it well. At my last school, my partner did most of the active lab work, and I wrote the experiments up. I don't care about acids, and explosions are kind of cool. It's just . . . open flame can send me into . . ." He shuddered, and something about his expression must have been convincing, because Mr. Thompson was already nodding. Dr. Jones hadn't taken much persuasion, either.

"We'll see what we can do. Megan is a bit of a pyromaniac, so I doubt very much that she'll mind doing most of that side of things."

Dean found this description of his mild-seeming lab partner faintly alarming, but he just thanked Mr. Thompson and went to find Room 8B. He was led there by his own sense of where people would keep a noisy, sometimes smelly class. Walking into the shop felt like coming home after a long day out in the scary world of academia. The other guys – and one girl – were all getting right to work on cars, some in pairs, some solo. Dean walked up to the teacher, who was bent over an engine, explaining the intricacies of computer driven fuel injection.

Dean had to admit, he preferred cars with a little less of the computer and a little more of the grease monkey, but he listened to the explanation and didn't find it lacking. The teacher set the kid he'd been lecturing to loose and turned to Dean. "Bobby tells me you got the Camaro my beginners half-ruined back up and running and ready to sell," he said without prelude.

Dean blinked and glanced around. All the other kids were looking at him, but he didn't see any animosity. Just curiosity. "It took a couple of days," he said with a shrug.

"Single handed?" the teacher asked.

"Well, Uncle John made a few suggestions," Dean said.

"But you did the work?" Dean nodded. "I'm Henry Enfield. Call me Hank. Let's get you started." Dean followed him to the back to get a pair of coveralls and his first assignment, feeling for the first time that day like he was going to do something productive.

* * *

Jeremy was in Sam's sixth period algebra class, so they headed out to the bus together. "I hate math," Jeremy moaned desperately.

Sam shrugged. "It's no big deal."

"Maybe you can help me with it," Jeremy said. "I mean, I'm doing okay right now, but I just know I'm going to get lost. I always do."

"Sure," Sam said. "I don't mind."

"Cool. Maybe you can come over sometimes and we can do homework together."

Sam grinned, but he didn't really feel it. He knew that was likely to come up in the near future at least. Dad and Bobby and Dean would want him out of the way while they worked on whatever it was they were all so worried about. "Your parents won't mind?"

"My mom always asks me why I don't have friends coming over like Trish does," Jeremy said. "If you were coming over more, maybe they'd get off my back."

Sam shrugged. "If your mom always cooks like that, I'd be totally up for it." They joined the others getting in line for the bus, and Sam noticed Dean a little ways ahead of him, surrounded by guys who seemed to be congratulating him over something. "What's that about?" he muttered.

"You didn't hear?" That was from Monty, a kid Sam knew from before. "Your cousin totally told Coach Jennings to stick it, and there was a screaming fight, and he got sent to the office."

Sam blinked. "Dean doesn't do screaming fights," he said.

"Well, that's what I heard from Joey, who was there," Monty said with a shrug.

"Nobody talks back to Coach Jennings," Jeremy said in an awed voice.

Sam nodded. He'd seemed like kind of a hard ass. Usually, Sam got sent to the benches on the first day if he didn't have his gym gear. Today, the coach had handed him some stuff and told him to dress out. He'd had kind of an attitude about it, too, now that Sam thought about it. "What period is that?" he asked Monty.

"Fourth," Monty said.

That explained that. Dean had objected to something, Sam didn't know what, and Coach Jennings had been all prepared for a fight from Sam fifth period. "Wouldn't he have been suspended if he'd had a screaming fight with a teacher?" Sam asked.

Trish came up and pushed her way into the crowd around Dean, and one of the teachers came over and told everyone who wasn't supposed to be on this bus to get to wherever they were supposed to be. Trish slipped her hand into Dean's arm and looked up at him winningly. He smiled down at her and pulled away slightly. Nothing real noticeable, but it made it hard for her to hold onto him. She let her hand drop and started chatting at him.

"See?" Sam said in an undertone to Jeremy. "He'll see right through her."

"I hope so. Even nice guys can turn into jerks when she starts messing with them. My cousin Steve won't have anything to do with her anymore, and I know my Aunt Marge hates her. Mom says she's just jealous because Alicia – that's my other cousin – isn't as pretty, but that's not it."

"What is it?" Sam asked, and Jeremy shook his head. Sam shrugged. Every family had secrets, just most of them didn't have deadly ones, like theirs did.

The bus pulled up, and they all got caught up in the inevitable pushing to get the best seats. Sam and Jeremy got a seat together, and Sam craned his neck. Trish had pushed her way, dragging Dean with her, all the way to the back. The make-out spot. Sam rolled his eyes and turned to face front. The bus pulled away from the curb and headed over to the elementary school to pick up the little kids from their area.

The bus started to fill up, little kids taking whatever seats their elders had left them. Trish tried to hold onto the back seat against the influx, but Dean just gave her a weird look and pushed over to let some fourth graders take the other half of the back seat. Trish looked mildly put out, and Sam laughed when Dean shrugged. He wasn't going to have to warn Dean about anything. Trish would take care of it all on her own.

The drive was long, and they were almost the last stop, so what with all the stops, it was nearly an hour before they got home. They had the same stop as Trish and Jeremy, so they left the two remaining kids behind and all four of them got off the bus. "You want to come to dinner tonight?" Trish asked Dean. "My mom won't mind."

Dean shrugged. "I've got to be heading home pretty quick. I'll walk you to your house, then I'd better be getting back."

"Why?" she asked, ruffling her hair. Sam rolled his eyes and glanced at Jeremy, who had a long suffering look on his face. "Do you have a lot of homework?" Given that Dean didn't have a backpack or a book in sight, this was clearly a gibe.

"Actually, I have a job," Dean said. "Bobby's expecting me by five-thirty." Sam glanced at his watch. It was twenty past four, so that was a good bet. He knew it wasn't true, but he wasn't going to rat on him. Not to Trish, at any rate.

Trish pouted and took his arm. "Let's see if I can convince you." She walked away with him, and Jeremy turned towards him. "You'd better go tell Bobby that Dean will be late, or he'll be in trouble."

Sam shook his head. "Dean won't be late. He's had a job for two years already, and he takes it seriously."

Jeremy shrugged and trudged off in the wake of his sister and Dean. Sam headed back to Bobby's, where he found dinner in the works, some kind of spicy stew, it smelled like, and no one in the kitchen. Bobby was in the library, Sam didn't see his dad or Missouri anywhere. He wondered if he'd taken her home, or something.

"Hey, Bobby," Sam said.

"Hey yourself," Bobby said with a grin. "Where's Dean?"

"He's walking Jeremy's sister home. I can't wait to hear what he thinks of her."

"Yeah? Why's that?"

"Because Jeremy thinks she's some kind of femme fatale. He says I need to warn Dean off her."

"Femme fatale?" Bobby repeated with a puzzled grin. "Where'd you get that from?"

"A documentary on A&E, I think," Sam said with a shrug. " _Femmes Fatales of History_ , or something like that. I've got loads of homework, so I'd better get started."

"You're not going to ask where your dad is?"

"I figure you'll tell me if you're _allowed_ to," Sam said sourly, dumping his backpack on the table and digging his math book out.

"Ouch," Bobby said with a realistic wince. "You know we're not doing any of this to bug you, don't you, Sam?"

Sam shrugged. "I know, but it doesn't actually stop it from bugging me anyway."

"I get you," Bobby replied. "As it happens, John took Missouri to pick up some things she'll need for an extended stay. I guess she didn't expect to be here more than a day or two."

Sam had gone to the fridge to pour himself a glass of milk. He looked up at that. "She's staying longer than that?" Bobby shrugged. "Bobby, what's going on?"

"I think your dad and Dean have told you what they want you to know."

Sam shut the fridge with unnecessary force and sat down, careful not to spill his milk on his books. Bobby wisely left him alone after that, and Sam worked out some of his irritation on polynomials. He'd moved on to reading through the poems he was supposed to be ready to discuss tomorrow when Dean came in. Sam glanced at the clock and saw that it was only quarter after five.

"Whoa!" Dean groaned. "That girl is a lot of trouble."

"So I've heard," Sam said, giving him an amused look.

Dean's brows went up. "You have? What have you heard?"

"Her brother says she's a troublemaker," Sam said with a shrug. "He told me to tell you to stay away from her because even nice guys turn into jerks around her."

"I noticed that she had a trio of dorks on a string, if that's what you mean," Dean said.

"Dopes on a rope, huh?" Bobby commented. "John and Missouri should be back fairly soon, and then we can have dinner. Where are your books, Dean?"

Dean gave him a baffled look. "Books?"

"Yeah, books," Bobby said.

"In my locker," Dean replied with a shrug.

"And your homework?" Bobby asked.

"I don't know." Dean reached in the fridge for a can of Coke. He turned around to find Bobby still gazing at him, eyes narrowed. "I'll just dash something off in the morning," he said. "Mostly that's how I get by."

"You need to do your homework, Dean," Bobby said.

"Homework," Dean said with a strange little laugh. "So, I'll just work my way through geometry and some stupid essay on early American history, and then we'll have another session with Missouri. Do you not see the absurdity of that?"

Sam turned to see what Bobby would say. "No," he replied frankly.

"Dude, you must have a really weird life," Dean said. Bobby shrugged. "Anyway, I left the books at school."

"What's the essay about?" Sam asked.

"Teddy Roosevelt," Dean said, and then he shrugged. "Okay, he's maybe the rockingest president ever, but still."

"Teddy Roosevelt isn't early American history," Bobby said.

Dean gave him a puzzled look. "He's ages ago," he replied. "Like, more than fifty years."

"Do you know the topic?" Bobby asked.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Describe Theodore Roosevelt's most important contribution to the American State," he recited. "But it's not due till next week."

"Then, since you don't have any of your regular books with you, I've got some stuff for you to look at." Bobby left the room and Sam laughed.

"You'll bring your books home tomorrow night," he predicted.

Dean gave him a dubious look, but then Sam saw Bobby coming back out of the library with three books in hand. Two of them looked like popular references, but the third was really old looking. "Give a look at these," Bobby said, thumping them down on the kitchen table before going back to work himself. "They should give you some idea of his contributions."

Dean gave Sam an incredulous look, and Sam just laughed again. Dean sat down and started looking at the books. "Dude, even I know he's way more recent than 1812," Dean called over his shoulder.

"Look at the author's name, chucklehead."

Sam peered and saw that the book was called _The Naval War of 1812._ The author's name was Theodore Roosevelt.

"Oh," Dean said, sounding startled. Taking a deep breath, he started looking through the other two books.

Sam got up a couple of times and stirred the stew, and he'd gone on to read the chapter he'd been assigned in history by the time the front door opened. He started clearing off the table, and Dean barely looked up. "Did you know that Teddy Roosevelt reformed the New York City police department?" he said. "Is there anything this guy didn't do?"

"Sit still for five minutes," Bobby said. "Time to set the table."

Dean picked up a napkin and used it as a bookmark, and Sam was amused to see him so interested. He didn't remember Dean as being much of a reader.

They had the table set before Dad and Missouri got to the kitchen, so when they arrived, everyone was ready to sit down to the table immediately. Sam didn't remember having this many meals with other people in a row since he'd left Bobby's. Even then, he'd often had breakfast on his own before heading to the bus. It was weird, but in a nice way.

Dad was pretty quiet during the meal, but Missouri kept getting on both Sam and Dean's case about table manners. She even had a go at Bobby for putting his elbows on the table. That was something Sam didn't remember ever having. He wondered how Dean felt – if it reminded him of Mom at all – but then he realized that Dean didn't even remember Mom. That seemed very wrong suddenly. Dean had always remembered Mom, in fact nearly everything Sam knew about their mother he'd learned from Dean. It was something else the demon had stolen from his brother. Sam suppressed a surge of anger. They would make him pay, all three of them.

After dinner, they cleared the table, then Dean went to grab the book on Teddy Roosevelt. Sam was just picking up his backpack when Dad said, "Take your books and stuff downstairs, would you, tiger?"

Sam turned around in surprise, but the look he saw on Dean's face was more than surprise. It was alarm and . . . maybe a little anger. Dean cleared his throat. "I have some homework to work on, too, John," he said.

"Is it due tomorrow?" Dad asked, and Dean's lips compressed.

"No, it's not."

Dad turned to Sam. "Sam? I asked you to go downstairs."

"Dad, I –" His father's eyebrows went up, and Sam's shoulders sagged. "Yes, sir." He shouldered his backpack and headed to his room. He wondered if Jeremy would think his bedroom was weird or cool. He'd bet on cool, based on how Jeremy had reacted to stuff so far.

He thumped his backpack down on the desk and flopped down on his stomach on the bed to read his history chapter.


	22. Chapter 22

Dean was still holding the book on Roosevelt. Feeling faintly rebellious, he put it down and looked at John. "I'm not letting her do that again," he said.

"I told you," Missouri murmured. "I'm going to go upstairs and put a few things away. I'll be down in a while." She left. Bobby didn't even say anything, he just faded back into the library to leave John and Dean alone in the kitchen. John walked over and flipped a switch on the wall, then turned around and leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. Dean swallowed, trying to get rid of a lump in his throat, but it didn't go anywhere.

"Did you have a good day at school, apart from PE?" John asked. Dean shrugged. "I hope the talk I had with the principal resolved that."

"He seemed to think so," Dean said. "I'll see how Coach Jennings reacts to it all tomorrow. I've got gym clothes I can take."

"I don't care what Coach Jennings says, or even what Principal Mitchell says. You don't have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable."

Dean nodded slowly. "Well, that solves that," he said, picking up the book again. "Letting Missouri touch me again makes me uncomfortable." He turned towards the basement stairs, but John cleared his throat. "What?"

"I meant at school, in terms of getting dressed and undressed," John said dourly. "Dean, what exactly is your objection?"

Dean put the book down and walked over to the table, pulling a chair out, flipping it around and sitting across its back. He'd begun to feel kind of shaky, and he didn't want it to be obvious. He crossed his arms along the back of the chair. That way everything but his head had a firm support. "Missouri couldn't get out, last time, could she?" he asked, and John didn't respond. "She couldn't get out until I pulled away, or am I wrong?"

John's eyes dropped, and Dean knew he was right. "You're not wrong," he said. He looked up again, and his eyes met Dean's. "But she's prepared for that possibility this time. We all are, right?" Dean shrugged, and his eyes fell. "She has a lot of experience with this process, Dean. She knows what she's doing, and she wouldn't do it if she couldn't handle it."

Dean bit his lip. "You're not going to tell me she's seen worse?"

"No, because I'm not going to lie to you about this. She hasn't seen worse, and she told me as much."

"Then she doesn't need any more of it stuck in her head. It's bad enough knowing what happened, but having to see it, too? Experience it? I know she experienced it with me . . . at least some . . . last time."

John didn't say anything for several moments. Finally, he cleared his throat. "She told me that she thought she'd pulled up a memory that you hadn't consciously recalled before." Dean grimaced and looked away. He'd been trying really hard not to think about that. "Was she right about that?" Dean nodded without speaking. "If that's part of what's holding you back, I can understand it. That was a hell of a long flashback you had."

Dean shook his head. "It's not that," he said. "New memories . . . from then . . . pop up from time to time. It's been a long time since one did, and that was more intense than usual, but . . ." He shook his head again. "No. She seems like a nice lady. She doesn't need this in her head."

"Look, I understand you feeling that way about Sammy. He's almost as young as you were when it happened. That makes sense. But Missouri's an adult, capable of making her own decisions."

"And she didn't know what she was getting into. You already said it was worse than anything she'd seen before."

"I told her everything I knew, Dean, and I showed her the photographs that Bobby took." John's voice was reassuring, but the news hit Dean hard even though he'd known it was likely. He dropped his forehead to his crossed arms. "She didn't know what she would see exactly, but she made an informed decision." Dean didn't respond. He couldn't find words. "Furthermore, she's seen it now. You know that. And she still wants to help."

"Then she's crazy!" Dean said without lifting his head. "And I'm not sure I want a crazy person in my head."

"There's a difference between crazy and caring, Dean," John said. "She cares about you. We all care about you, and we want to do everything we can to get you feeling better." Dean shrugged. "And to make you safer." Dean closed his eyes. Safer. He'd felt safe at Jake's, before he'd known that the crap on his body was spells, when he could still pretend that it was a psychopath with ritual tendencies, when he could believe that the bastard was done with him. One of the things that had come with the memories Missouri had unlocked was the certain knowledge that the demon hadn't been finished when Dean had escaped. Something had interrupted him, he'd left, and he had to have been furious when he'd returned to find Dean gone.

"Why hasn't he come after me?" he asked, raising his head to look at John. "Why hasn't he come back?"

John's eyes were shining with unshed tears, and Dean thought he was an awfully emotional guy for such a hard nose ex-Marine. "That we don't know, Dean, but Bobby has a suspicion."

"What?"

John raised his voice. "Bobby?" Dean turned his head slightly to see the trucker turned scholar enter the room behind him. "Tell Dean why you think the demon hasn't come after him again."

Bobby opened his mouth then shut it with an audible click. He walked over to the fridge and pulled out a beer, offering one to John. He took it, and Dean wished he could have one, too. Bobby opened the bottle, then leaned against the counter next to John and looked over at Dean. "I'd give you one, but if you and Missouri are going to work together tonight, you'll need a clear head."

"Oh," Dean said. He felt tears coming to his own eyes and blinked them back.

"We've identified the purposes of the spells on your back," Bobby said, and Dean stared at him in shock.

"Spells? There's more than one?"

"The markings on your skin are what we call glyphs," Bobby said, and his voice had taken on a weird sort of teaching tone, like he was lecturing in class. "Each glyph forms a unique and separate spell when combined with other factors, like the chanting and the concoctions the demon used both on the blade and to pack the wounds."

Dean gulped. This was a lot more information than he'd expected. From John's expression, he was surprised, too. Dean managed to nod. He felt pretty shaky, still, but he wasn't freaking out. Not yet, at any rate. That might still come.

"On your back, there are two independent but related glyphs."

"So two spells," Dean said, and his voice was a little tremulous. "Related to each other?"

"Bobby, I just wanted him to know why the demon hasn't come back," John said in an undertone.

Bobby nodded. "Well, the gist of it is that I think he miscalculated. He wasn't expecting you to escape, and he didn't give due consideration to the spell on the top half of your back. See, it protects you against demons to some degree, and I think it prevented him from finding you again." Dean blinked at him. That was a weird idea. "It took some time to mature completely," Bobby added. "Obviously, it didn't stop him from hurting you, and I'm honestly not sure it would now, but I think it does prevent him from using magic to find you. And given how much you were undoubtedly bleeding, he may have assumed you died."

"I wasn't bleeding when he left," Dean said, and he shuddered. "He'd . . . it was closed, but it was . . . really recent."

Bobby nodded. "Did you start bleeding before you left the warehouse?"

Dean's hands were now shaking hard enough that he knew they had to see it. "I don't . . . I'm not sure."

"It's okay, Dean," John said. "Bobby's just suggesting that he may still have assumed that you died after you left. Given the way the wounds opened up repeatedly during your hospital stay, I wouldn't be at all surprised if he had."

Dean swallowed convulsively. "Okay. I guess that makes sense."

"So, that's why I think the demon hasn't come after you," Bobby said.

Dean nodded. It fit. It also wasn't particularly reassuring, because it matched his own feeling that the demon had never finished with him. That made it seem even more real. He was glad that they weren't treating him like a little kid, feeding him reassurances that weren't based in reality. "So," he said. "You said you know what both of them are. What's the other one?"

"It's a protection against messengers of light," Bobby said. "Not sure what the point of it is, but that's what my books call it."

"Weird," Dean said. "Messengers of light? Like angels?" Bobby shrugged. "So . . . I didn't think those were real, but why would a demon put something like that on me if they weren't? I mean, he'd know, wouldn't he?"

"I honestly don't know," Bobby said. "But that's what I've figured out so far."

Dean looked down at his hands. "I guess you'd better get Missouri."

"I'm here," she said, and Dean half-turned to see her in the doorway to the kitchen. "You want to go back in the living room?"

"Probably a good idea. You should be sitting down."

"Dean, honey, stop worrying about me. I'll be fine."

"If you'll be fine with this knowledge, then there's something wrong with you."

She shook her head with an exasperated sigh. "Of course I'm not fine with the knowledge. That's not what I mean. I'm not going to break down or fall apart."

Dean stood up. "So, what's the plan?"

"Plan?" she asked.

"How do we keep you from getting stuck again?"

"You told him?" Missouri demanded, glaring at John.

"He guessed. I confirmed."

"It wasn't so much a guess as an impression," Dean said. "I was there, too, Missouri." Her eyes widened, and she shrugged. "So how do we keep it from happening?"

"Let's get set up, and then we can talk about it," she said, turning and leading the way into the living room. Dean followed reluctantly, but he'd agreed. He wanted to remember what everyone here already seemed to know. The chairs were still set up how they'd been yesterday. "Sit on down," Missouri said, seating herself. Dean sat down uneasily. "Now, this time, I'm not going to hold. I'm going to rest my hands on yours, which will make it easier for either one of us to break the link." Dean nodded. "And John, I'd like you to stand behind Dean with your hands on his shoulders."

John walked around behind him, and Dean craned his neck to look up at him. He turned back to Missouri. "Why?"

"I'm hoping it will anchor you in the here and now," Missouri said. "And he makes you feel safe, which may help to keep you from panicking if we uncover another lost memory." John put his hands on Dean's shoulders, and Missouri was right. It did make him feel safer.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked.

"Just put your hands out for me, and when I put mine on yours, don't grasp."

Dean nodded. He rubbed his hands together, then held them out towards her, palms up. She rested her hands, palm down, on top of his. He swallowed uncomfortably and waited for something to happen.

* * *

John felt an increase of tension in Dean's shoulders after several minutes, and he glanced up at Bobby, who stood behind Missouri's chair. They hadn't explained what he was there for to Dean, but his job was to grab Missouri if she seemed to start having some kind of bad reaction. He and Bobby were still somewhat concerned that she wouldn't be able to pull away from Dean if she got caught in his memories again, despite the lack of clutching hands.

He squeezed Dean's shoulders, hoping that would help him relax a little. Missouri's eyes closed, and she started looking like she'd gone into REM sleep, and Dean's shoulders actually went a little more taut. John just held on, waiting and watching to see if anything was going to need to be done. After about ten minutes, Missouri's eyes fluttered open, and she pulled her hands back. "See, now that went better," she said to Dean.

Dean dropped his hands into his lap and gave John a look over his shoulder, one that he suspected meant he should release his grip. He let go and took a step around the side of the chair. Dean's eyes were a little wild, but he didn't seem to be flashing back at all. Just a little off kilter.

"Did you see anything?" he said to Missouri.

"I did," she replied. "Did you?"

Dean nodded jerkily. "But it was all stuff . . . I need to go . . ." He got up. "Excuse me," he said before blundering out of the room. John followed just in time to see him disappear into the bathroom. He heard retching noises and sighed. No flashbacks, just nausea. He contemplated whether he should wait for Dean here or if he should go back to the living room. Then he caught sight of something else out of the corner of his eye and turned.

Sam stared at him from the door to the kitchen, eyes wide. "Is Dean okay?" he asked.

"Dean's fine, Sam," John said, walking over and putting a hand on his shoulder to guide him back into the kitchen, away from the door to the bathroom. "What are you doing upstairs?"

"I wanted a soda," Sam said. "And I was done with my homework, so I was thinking about going upstairs to watch some TV."

John grimaced. "All right, go on upstairs." He tousled his younger son's hair. "We just got done in any case, so Dean will probably join you shortly."

"Why is he throwing up?"

"I don't know exactly," John said with perfect truth. "But don't ask him about it, okay, tiger?"

Sam rolled his eyes. He grabbed a Coke from the fridge and a bag of chips. "See you later," he said, and he tromped out through the hall to the stairs up to the second floor.

John followed as far as the hallway where he waited for Dean to emerge from the bathroom. When five minutes stretched to ten, he began to get worried, though. He walked up to the door and knocked. "Dean? You okay?" There was no response, and John looked around to find Bobby beside him.

"What's wrong?"

"He's just been in there a while," John said.

"You can't just walk in on him, John."

"If he doesn't say something or come out soon, I will." He bit his lip, trying not to count seconds. "So, how's Missouri?"

"Processing," Bobby said. "She told me to haul ass so she could think." He grimaced. "Apparently my emotional reactions were being too invasive."

"She have paper and pen handy for when she's ready?"

"She shifted to the desk in – John!"

John had lost patience and had opened the bathroom door. He stared in alarm because the room was empty. "Bobby!" John exclaimed, and his tone got through Bobby's protestations that Dean deserved his privacy.

Bobby leaned around and looked into the room. "Where'd he go?"

"I was in the hallway or the kitchen the entire time," John said.

"Well, it's not like the door squeaks," Bobby pointed out, scratching at his beard.

"Neither does the front door," John replied. He strode over to the front door. Dean's jacket was still hanging on the hall tree, but, in an emotional muddle, Dean might not have bothered to grab it. He hurried across to jerk the front door open and walked out on the porch. No one was immediately visible, but Dean had a good ten or fifteen minutes on them. John took several steps out into the yard. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he yelled, "Dean? Dean!"

"John, he can't have gone far," Bobby said. He came out with both their coats. John called out again as he pulled his on, and Bobby added his voice. They walked further out into the yard, going in different directions, continuing to call out Dean's name.

Behind them, John heard a window open. "What?" Both men whirled at the voice to see Dean leaning out the window.

John clapped a hand to his mouth, unable to express his relief in any other way. Bobby started muttering uncomplimentary things, then yelled, "Nothing, Dean, we're just being idjits."

"Okay," Dean said, looking confused.

"Close the window!" Bobby said. "We're coming back in."

"Sammy and I were just watching a movie," Dean said. "Do you need me to come down there?"

"No," John said. "Just go back to your movie."

John followed Bobby back into the house, listening to the nearly inaudible irritated mutter. When they'd both hung their coats up, Bobby turned to him. "Okay, I've got a suggestion that you're going to take."

"Yeah?" John asked.

"Forget about Missouri and what she saw for a while. Go in the kitchen, make three cups of hot cocoa, and spend some time with your sons." John opened his mouth to protest, but Bobby overrode him. "We can take it up again in the morning when the boys are at school. Go spend some quality time with them now."

John discovered that the objections he'd had were rapidly evaporating. He took a deep breath and said, "Okay, I think I will."

Bobby gave him one sharp nod, then went into the living room, leaving John to follow that directive.

* * *

Bobby contemplated peering over Missouri's shoulder at what she was writing, but he decided against it on the grounds that she'd probably elbow him in the ribs. He didn't need bruises. Instead he went through into the library and started flipping through his books again. He needed to locate the rest of those glyphs. Maybe knowing what the crap on his skin was would give the boy some measure of peace.

Of course, he didn't even know where to look for what was causing the glowing patches the film had caught, and the expansions to the protective glyphs didn't appear in his book. It was all a little alarming, and he wasn't nearly prepared to tell Dean about that aspect of things. The kid had enough to be going on with at the moment. He shook his head. Getting them off him seemed like the obvious next move, but Bobby wasn't any clearer on how to achieve that than he was on how to fly. Nor was he altogether certain that he really wanted to remove a glyph that appeared to offer the boy some protection against demons. Messengers of light . . . that was another story . . . maybe. Regardless of the tendencies displayed by Hallmark and other purveyors of popular doohickeys and gizmos, angels didn't come across in the Bible or most of the older lore as anything but soldiers of God, violent, aggressive and vengeful. What that sort of "messenger of light" would think of Dean's time with a demon, Bobby didn't know. He wasn't even sure he wanted to know.

A hand on his shoulder made him start, and he looked up into Missouri's worried face. His brows knit. "What is it?"

"How that boy remained sane is anyone's guess," she said.

"What do you mean?" Bobby asked, growing alarmed. "Are you suggesting that he's not?" She had a little different access to Dean's mental state than the rest of them could. She might know things they didn't.

"Oh, he's sane, but everything I picked up from him tonight was stuff he already remembered. How any child could experience that, remember it, and stay sane is . . . beyond me. Most adults would be undone by it."

"Well, he's not nuts, by any means, but would you really call him hinged?" Bobby asked. "I mean, flashbacks, night terrors, nightmares that would make a Viet Nam vet flinch, those are all things he's evidenced so far."

"But he's still the same boy, Bobby. I know you don't know me, but I met that child when he was four years old, and just as cute as a bug. His mother had just died, and he wasn't talking. The only way John could find out what he was thinking was to bring him to me. He's older, he's wiser, and he feels marginally less out of control of his world, but he's still the same boy."

Bobby sighed. Marginally less out of control than a motherless four-year-old. Poor kid.

The boys came down after several hours and went to bed after wishing him good night. John came down shortly thereafter with the mugs and the tray and a half-eaten bag of chips. He seemed a great deal less tense, which was a nice change. He put the mugs in the sink and turned to Bobby. "I'm going to bed, if you don't mind."

"Go for it. I've got nothing going right now, and Missouri is still working on writing up what she saw today."

John nodded and he headed up to bed. Bobby was glad to see it, and he hoped the man would get some sleep. He'd been operating on next to no sleep for the past week or more, and it had been telling on his reactions. Bobby returned to work.

Awhile later, Missouri walked in and dropped three sheets of notebook paper in front of him. He looked up at her. "That's it," she said. "Until next time, but I'd say we'd do better to let him rest tonight."

"He's in bed, Missouri. We weren't going to wake him up."

"Bobby, it's three in the morning," she said, rolling her eyes. "By tonight, I meant Tuesday night. We can take it up again Wednesday."

"Do you need some rest, too?" Bobby asked.

"Maybe a little," she said. "This is all very disturbing, I have to confess, but don't tell Dean."

"I don't think he realizes how much disturbing stuff we all run up against in our line of work."

Missouri shrugged. "Most of what I run up against is philandering husbands and cheating wives. It's very seldom I come across anything this serious, not since Mary died, in fact."

Bobby grimaced. "Well, I certainly won't be telling Dean that. Good night, Missouri."

"Good night."

Bobby picked up the pages and read through them. More chanting, different words. He found himself wondering if the tonality of it was relevant. The trouble there was that he didn't really want anyone to say the words at all, much less to say them in the relevant tones. This vision appeared to include the skewers that John had described. The demon had driven them into Dean's body, as much as three or four inches into him, and then he had sent liquid down the rods and allowed the substance to sink into Dean's flesh through those holes. He'd left them in Dean for hours at a time, sometimes even heating them with some kind of fire, Missouri had been less than specific about what kind. Bobby wished he had any idea what the substance was, but it was unlikely that the demon had bothered to tell Dean the recipe. He didn't even appear to have told Dean the purpose of the things he'd done.

Bobby tucked the pages into the file he'd created and stood up, stretching. He picked up a book on angelic intervention. Maybe if he could determine why the demon had been sufficiently concerned about "messengers of light" that he'd put that spell on Dean, he'd be able to figure out the purpose of the whole rigmarole. Because, quite frankly, there was no way a demon went to all that trouble to carve spells on Dean without a reason. He could have tortured him a dozen different ways, some even more inventive and terrible, without investing that level of energy and time into the process. And it couldn't be an attack against John, not with it being patently obvious that he'd never intended for Dean to reunite with his father.

He took the book to bed with him and fell asleep to the stories of Michael's defeat of Lucifer.


	23. Chapter 23

Trish was waiting for Dean at the fork where the paths from the two houses joined on the walk to the road. Dean contained his reaction because he didn't particularly want to piss her off. From the sound of things, they were sticking around for a while.

"Hi, Dean!" Trish said. "Were you on time for work?" she asked archly. Sammy hurried on ahead and Dean was just as glad.

"Sure." Dean neatly avoided letting her take his arm by hooking his thumb through the strap of the backpack that Bobby had dug out of storage for him. "Sorry about last night, but you know, it's the only reason I have any spending money, that job. John isn't exactly swimming, and I'm eighteen anyway. A little old for getting an allowance." He shrugged. "So it's what pays for movies and ice cream, if you know what I mean." A little judicious flirting ought to distract her from his defection of the previous night.

"Is that an offer for a date?" she asked, dimpling at him.

He'd walked right into that one. "You free on Friday?" he asked, hoping the answer was no, and that one of her delightful dopes on a rope was already scheduled for that evening.

She walked to his other side and threaded her arm through the one not hooked in the backpack strap, awkward though it was with the cast on his arm. "I believe I am. I haven't seen _Scream_ yet."

Dean controlled a shudder. "Not a big slasher fan," he said, forcing a shrug. "All girls screaming and running the wrong way, it's dumb."

"Most guys seem to like it," she replied, looking up at him. "Don't you like having your date cuddle up against you and hide her face in your chest?"

"I'd rather have a girl who was busy yelling at the idiots on the screen to run the right way and not wander off alone," Dean said.

"You like smart girls, then?" she asked. "Independent girls?"

Dean shrugged. "It looks like the bus is here." He started to move forward, but she held him back.

"We could skip out on school today," she suggested slyly. "Jeremy wouldn't tell, and if you're eighteen, you can call in your own notes."

"It's only my second day here," he said, pulling her along. "I don't –"

"I don't feel like going to school today."

They'd reached the road and the bus was still there by reason that Sammy was still standing on the steps. "Then don't go," he said. "Thanks, Sammy."

She gave up her efforts, turning all sweetness and light again, though she did pull him back to the back seat. Dean wondered what he'd have to do to convince her that he was really not interested. Did guys really fall for her vague promises? What kinds of idiots were the guys around here?

She pressed herself against him, and he had to admit, her forward ways were sort of appealing. There was no requirement that he spend time getting to know her and getting past her defenses to convince her that a little hanky panky might be fun. She seemed even more gung ho about it than he was.

Gradually, the bus filled up, and Trish continued to mold herself to him, despite the arrival of a pair of second or third graders in the seat ahead of them. He sat up straighter, embarrassed because one of the girls knelt backwards on the seat and stared at them. "My mother says that's a sin," she announced after a while.

"Your mother's a wacko," Trish responded with a smile. "Why don't you mind your own business?"

Dean shifted a little, making it more uncomfortable for her to lean on him. Maybe if he put his backpack between them she'd get the message. He'd never met a girl who was so insanely pushy. He'd had a couple of girls follow him around and put notes in his locker, but never one who actually got so touchy with him.

"Got to get my books from my locker," Dean said when they got off the bus, and he hurried off to grab his stuff. He opened the pack and loaded the stupid pile into his bag. He'd never been so eager to get to his math class. He leaned over to the nerdy girl to his left and said, "What was the assignment last night? I left my book in my locker."

"Page 193, even problems," she said.

Dean sighed. Not even the odd, so that he could check his answers. He buckled down and started working on the assignment. He wasn't done when Mr. Lewis started class, but since the teacher didn't ask them to turn in the homework immediately, Dean had a little more time while he started explaining the next concept. His class in Fort William had actually been a little further along, so he could keep up with the explanation while working.

There was a basket by the door for the homework, and Dean turned his in as he left the room. He went on to English. That one was harder to fake. He had some kind of reading journal assignment due, but Mrs. Roth just told him to do better tonight and that she understood he'd have to work hard to catch up in _Pride and Prejudice_ , and that she'd be understanding about it taking him some time. They talked about social stratification in class, which apparently meant the way people were separated on class lines. He wrote the words down on a borrowed sheet of lined paper and tried to grasp what everyone was talking about. The time period was not one he was overly familiar with. Maybe Bobby had a book on it.

He caught himself thinking that and wondered what was wrong with him. John didn't care how he did in school, but both Bobby and Sammy did, and apparently that made some kind of difference to him.

In history, they'd started talking about Roosevelt's presidency, and Dean discovered that he actually had something to contribute to the conversation. He didn't feel the need to, but he listened with an unusual amount of interest. Mr. Walker would be astonished to see him.

He went to the library at lunch, neatly avoiding Trish. He went to the librarian and asked for history books about the time period _Pride and Prejudice_ was set in and checked a couple out. Then it was time to head on to PE. He walked in nervously. He'd brought gym clothes with him this time, or at least sweats and tennies. Coach Jennings came out as he walked through the locker room and gestured Dean into his office, closing the door behind him. "I'm sorry, Hunter," he said gruffly. "I made unwarranted assumptions, and I'm sorry if anything I did upset you."

Dean blinked at him. "It's no big deal," he said. What had Principal Mitchell said to the man?

"Are you prepared to dress out today?"

"I wasn't planning on taking off my undershirt," Dean said, flipping up the hem of his black t-shirt to reveal another underneath it. "If that's okay."

"Whatever works," Coach Jennings said. "Go on out and get ready. If you start having trouble because of the cast, you just let me know and you can sit out."

"What are we doing?"

"Basketball."

"I should be fine," Dean said.

Coach Jennings nodded, and Dean made his escape. He changed into his sweats and tennis shoes. The guy next to him looked over when he just took off his outer t-shirt and left the other one on. "You not changing all the way?"

"Nope," Dean said. He tossed his stuff in the locker and went out into the gym.

Next period was chemistry. He sat down next to Megan and pulled out his book. Megan glanced over at him from where she was already working. "So, fire and you aren't friends, I hear," she said.

He gave her a sidelong look. She was about five feet tall, had long strawberry blond hair in a single braid, and was pretty in an ordinary kind of way. She didn't look like a pyromaniac. "Not really, no," he said with an embarrassed shrug.

"No big deal," she said, tossing her braid back over her shoulder. "I was afraid you were going to be all macho man and want to do everything yourself."

"God, no," Dean replied. "I can just take down the notes. Totally works for me."

"Just write down everything I say," she said. "I'm serious about this stuff. I'm going to the best college I can afford, so I'll need scholarships."

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen," she said.

"I will do my best not to hold you back," he replied.

"Oh, you couldn't." She looked up at him, a hint of amusement in her green eyes. "But I think we can work together."

"Me too," he said.

Mr. Thompson began the class period, and Dean focused on him, taking notes and keeping up.

* * *

Oddly enough, Sam felt like he just slotted right back into the world of Ithaca, South Dakota. He'd had a couple of friends, and they were still friendly. He'd had a couple of guys who hadn't liked him, and they still didn't. The teachers were all different because he'd been at Fremont before, but they had ready access to his records and his previous teachers. But he knew where everything in town was, he knew the local librarians and the grocery clerks, and the few things that had changed didn't make him feel out of place.

He wondered how long they'd be staying, because it was beginning to feel like home again.

Now that he knew that Dean was his brother, seeing him around school was amazingly cool, though Dean was acting a little weird. He'd spent all of Tuesday's lunch in the library, and Sam saw him go in again on Wednesday at lunch.

Sam went into the cafeteria, but before he got all the way across the room, Trish came up to him. "Hey, Sam, have you seen your cousin?"

Despite the fact that he'd had meals at their house and hung out with her brother, this was only the second time Trish had ever directly addressed him. He blinked at her. "Not since this morning," he replied. If Dean wanted to see her, he knew where to find her, and Sam wasn't sending her after him. Maybe that's why he was spending lunches in the library.

She dismissed him from her attention, and Sam walked over to dump his books down next to Jeremy, who'd already gotten his food. "What did her highness want?" Jeremy asked.

"To know where Dean is," Sam said, shrugging.

"She can't stop talking about him," Jeremy said. "She gets that way sometimes."

Sam went to the counter and got himself something that vaguely resembled food. Then he returned to Jeremy. Trish had settled with her posse, but she kept looking around as if expecting Dean to turn up any moment.

Joey and Marshal came and sat down with them. "So, Sam, what have you been doing since you left this dozy burg for the great big outside world?" Marshal asked.

Sam shrugged. "Not a lot. Just traveling. Dad's job doesn't let him stay anywhere long."

"Any big cities?"

"Saint Louis, Kansas City, Milwaukee, Los Angeles, New Orleans." Marshal's eyes were huge.

"Not New York?" Joey asked.

Sam shook his head. "Mostly we stay in smaller towns," he said.

"How many schools have you gone to?" Jeremy asked.

"More than a dozen," Sam said.

"I thought sure you'd have been to New York by now," Marshal said. "What about the state? Have you been to the state?"

Sam shook his head, and Jeremy shrugged. "New York isn't that cool," he said.

"New York City isn't cool?" Joey exclaimed incredulously.

"My Aunt Lydia lives there," Jeremy said. "I've visited her a couple of times, and it's really dirty. Everything's really expensive, and she won't let me go anywhere by myself."

"You ever try sneaking out?"

"Trish did," Jeremy replied. "My dad had a cow and Aunt Lydia hasn't asked us back again." They all glanced over at Trish.

"Did you see any shows?" Marshal asked.

Joey rolled his eyes. "Are you trying to be labeled a fag?" he asked in an undertone.

"Sam knows I'm not."

"Sam doesn't care," Sam said. He turned to Jeremy. "Did you?"

"Sure. I saw _Into the Woods_ and _Cats_." Jeremy shrugged. "They were cool."

"The kid has my dream vacation, and he says it was cool," Marshal moaned. "When I turn eighteen, I am going straight to New York."

"To do what?" Sam asked.

"Work backstage anywhere they'll have me," he said. "What do you want to do when you grow up?"

Sam shrugged. "Law enforcement . . . fugitive recovery." It was the closest he could come to a description of hunting.

"I'm going to be a doctor," Jeremy announced.

They all looked at Joey. He shrugged. "Hey, I'm fourteen years old. I figure I got a year or two left to decide."

The bell rang, sending them all to class.

* * *

The next several days passed without incident so far as John was concerned. John was startled, though pleased, to see Dean taking an interest in his schoolwork. He wasn't really sure what had caused it, but he wasn't going to argue. Sam and Dean worked together, and then Missouri and Dean would work together. They both took Tuesday night off, but Dean pushed for it Wednesday and Thursday night. John was surprised by his insistence, but, again, he wasn't going to argue.

Friday morning, Dean walked into the kitchen early. John was partway through his own breakfast, having had nightmares half the night, making it impossible for him to go back to sleep.

"Good morning, John," Dean said. "You look almost as good as I feel."

"Oh yeah?" John studied Dean's face. "Nightmares?"

Dean nodded grimly. "You too?"

"'Fraid so." John wasn't admitting they were related to Missouri's visions of the night before.

"It's odd," Dean said. "The more Missouri and I work together, the less . . . immediate those memories seem. Talking about them would never have done that, but . . . do you think she's doing something while she looks at them?"

"I don't know. Do you want me to ask?" John knit his brows. "Is it a problem if she is?"

Dean shrugged. "Not really sure. I'd prefer to have been told, but . . . I don't mind a little more distance. Really."

"I can understand that," John said.

"So, I'm . . . I've got a date tonight, but I'm not sure how I'm going to handle that without a car. Not that I could drive her anywhere anyway. No passengers who aren't able to take the wheel until I'm a little further out of flashback city."

John blinked. "A date?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

Dean grimaced, sticking his fingers into his cast to scratch the back of his right hand. "It wasn't exactly my idea. Honestly, I think it will be easier to get it done with than to explain that I never intended to ask her. She's kind of a drama queen."

John's brows drew together. "You never intended to ask her?"

"It's Trish, Jeremy's sister." Sam had talked about Jeremy at dinner a couple of times, so John had some idea of who she was. "I think she thinks she's irresistible, and she's not really good with the word no. I'm not sure she's capable of hearing it."

"She sounds charming." John tilted his head. "You know, you don't have to go anywhere with her if you don't want to."

Dean blinked at him. "Can I be grounded?" he asked.

John didn't laugh, though that was his immediate response to this earnest request from his son. He gazed soberly at Dean. "If that's what you want. Why would I have grounded you?"

"Doesn't matter. I'll make something up when the time comes."

John snorted. "I'm sure you'll manage just fine. Just make sure you let Sam know so he doesn't act surprised."

Dean laughed. "Yeah, that could be awkward."

When he and Sammy left the house, Dean said, "So, Sam, I'm going to tell Trish I'm grounded so I can get out of our date tonight."

"You have a date with Trish tonight?" Sam asked incredulously. "I thought you didn't like her."

"I don't, that's why I'm trying to get out of it."

"Why did you ask her?"

"I didn't," Dean said. "She sort of tricked me into it."

Sammy laughed. "From some of the stories Jeremy told me, that doesn't surprise me at all. So you got Dad to ground you?"

"I got him to agree that I am grounded, so that I can honestly say so to her. I just have to come up with a good reason."

"You've been getting your homework done, you help out around the house, you help Bobby with cars when he needs you to, you're doing everything right." Sammy shrugged. "I guess you could say you talked back to him."

"Porn," Dean said. "Maybe he caught me looking at porn."

"You'd tell a girl about looking at porn?"

"Good point," Dean said. "I ran up the phone bill. Talking to my old girlfriend. That way I'm in trouble, and it pisses her off at the same time."

"You'd tell a girl about talking to an ex-girlfriend?" Sammy asked.

"She's not a girl I want to spend time with, Sammy."

"I thought you were keeping that part from her. With the whole not telling her straight up that you wouldn't go on a date with her if she was the last woman on earth."

"That might be overstating things a bit, Sammy," Dean said. "If she were the last woman on earth, she'd be my last hope of losing my virginity."

Sammy shrugged. "I'd rather keep it."

Dean thought that was an interesting point, but at that moment they reached the fork in the path and Trish. Sammy trotted on ahead, no doubt to catch up to Jeremy. Trish had given up on trying to get him to cut school after Wednesday, but she still seemed to want to be in total physical contact with him. Fortunately, the weather required enough extra clothes to make that a less than intimate experience.

"I'm really looking forward to our date tonight," she said, leaning close.

"I can't go," Dean replied.

"What?" She gazed at him with wide, upset eyes that were presumably supposed to reduce him to a desperate desire to please her. They actually made him want to laugh. "But I've been looking forward to it all week." This wasn't said in a whiny voice, it was said in a sweet, anxious tone. She was really good at that. He found he could admire the technique without being the least bit swayed by it.

"I got grounded," he said with a shrug.

"Grounded?" she asked with a toss of her head. "First off, who can ground you? You're eighteen."

"He's my uncle," Dean said.

"You're an adult," she replied. "Besides, what can he do to you anyway? Ground you for a little while longer? You just slip out, and what difference does it make?" She swayed closer, leaning up so that their mouths were closer together. "You're old enough to go out on your own anyway."

"Why would I do that?" Dean asked. "He's supporting me, and all the money I earn is for spending." They were approaching the bus stop. The bus wasn't there yet, so she pulled him to a stop.

"What did you get grounded for?"

Dean shrugged. "I was calling a girl back in Fort William, and the phone bill was adding up. Bobby and Uncle John got a little pissed. I'm grounded till I can pay it off."

"A girl?" she repeated, and Dean smiled internally. "What girl?"

"Katie," he said. "She's a sweetheart." He let his eyes go distant, as if remembering.

"Well, I'll just have to see that you forget her, so you don't get yourself into any more trouble."

The bus arrived at that moment, and Dean hurried forward to get on. He took a spot halfway back and put his pack on the seat beside him. Sam and Jeremy sat in front of him, each turning sideways so they could talk to him. Trish took a seat further forward, giving him a puzzled glower that he ignored.

The morning passed without incident, except that he got his team an extra three points in basketball by sinking a basket from a distance despite behind handicapped by the broken arm. He was on his way to the library from gym class when Trish grabbed his arm and steered him towards the cafeteria. "You don't eat enough," she said.

He tried unsuccessfully to free himself, mostly because he didn't want to hurt her. The cafeteria was very close to the gym, so they got there more quickly than he would have preferred. She pulled him into the line for food and he finally managed to slip his arm out of her grasp. "I'm not hungry," he said, and he turned away.

She caught hold of his backpack. "Come on, Dean, don't be like this," she said. "Okay, so you can't come tonight. Maybe we can do something on the weekend."

"No," Dean said, turning around sharply. "Look, Trish, I've been trying my level best to let you down gently, not to hurt your feelings and all that. But you're not making it easy." She looked at him, her brows knit, her eyes flashing angrily in her sweetly puzzled face. He wondered how many people could see what a complete control freak she was, how many could actually see past the apparent sweetness on the surface. She was being deliberately obtuse, he was almost sure of it. He shrugged. "Okay, I've got a confession to make. I'm not grounded. I never was, and I'm not in any trouble. I haven't called Katie . . . pretty much ever."

"Then why did you tell me you were?" she demanded.

"Because I was trying to be nice," he replied, getting enormously irritated. "Better to say I _can't_ go than that I don't want to go. Anyway, I'm done. I'm not interested. I tried dropping hints, I tried dropping bricks, but you're just not getting it."

"You asked me on a date, and now you're telling me you're not interested?" Some of the velvet tone dropped away. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Actually, I told you I needed my job so I could have spending money for movies and stuff, and you took that as an offer." He shook his head. "Look, I'm sorry if it hurts your feelings, but I'd really like you to leave me alone." He glanced around at the audience they were drawing and grimaced. Then he caught sight of Jack, Keith and Mike sitting at a table not far off, glowering. He drew a little closer and lowered his voice. "Look, you've got three guys who are dying to spend time with you. Go bug them and leave me alone, okay? I've got stuff to do." She turned scarlet, then white, then scarlet again, and then she stormed out of the lunch room.

Dean walked out by a different door, trying hard not to pay any attention to all the people who were whispering as he passed. He headed to the library, trying to quell the stress in his roiling stomach. The last thing he needed was for his stress over something this stupid to trigger a panic attack. The library should be nice and soothing.


	24. Chapter 24

Sam was a little late to the cafeteria, and when he got there he found the place buzzing with excitement. He grabbed some fries and a burrito and went to sit with Jeremy. When his new friend saw him, he grinned. "Your cousin rocks, big time!" he exclaimed.

Sam shrugged, sitting down. "I know. What's up?"

"He just totally told my sister off in front of the whole school," Jeremy exclaimed. "Told her to stop bugging him, if you can believe it. She thinks she's irresistible, but she just got told."

Sam laughed. "I told you I didn't need to warn him," he said. "Dean's not a kid, not by most definitions, anyway, and your sister's not very subtle. Anyway, what's this I hear about a rally?"

"Thursday night," Jeremy said. "Like once a quarter we have an anti-drug and alcohol rally, but the parents raised a fuss, I guess, so it can't be held during school hours. It's not mandatory, but the buses won't run until after it's over, so it might as well be."

Sam sighed. "So unless we can get a ride home, we'll be stuck here till it's over, whether we go or not."

"Exactly."

"Are you going to go?"

Jeremy shrugged. "I don't know. I went to the last one, and it was really stupid. They had the cheerleaders down there with slogans, bouncing and screaming, and since all of them drink, and I actually saw one of them spike the punch at the Christmas dance . . ." He shrugged again.

"Kind of undercuts their message," Sam said, nodding.

"Did anyone ever tell you that you talk like a grown up?" Jeremy asked with a grin.

"Dean teases me about it all the time. He keeps threatening to teach me to throw spit wads."

Jeremy blinked. "Why would you want to throw spit wads? Ick."

"That's what I said." The rest of the day was pretty ordinary from Sam's point of view.

At the end of the day, he and Jeremy went from math to the bus line, but Dean trotted up to them. "I called Uncle John and asked if he'd come pick us up if we went to see a movie," he said. "Jeremy, you're invited if your parents are okay with it. I figured we could hang out in the arcade if what we want to see doesn't start right away."

Sam grinned. "Sure," he said.

Jeremy's eyes were wide. "Are you trying to really piss off my sister?"

"I couldn't really care less about your sister," Dean replied. "The thing is, I don't really want to go straight home tonight, and we've all been good little students, so I think we deserve some fun."

"Give me a minute," Jeremy said. He hurried over to the pay phone by the office.

Sam looked up at Dean. "It will piss her off, you know," he said. "If you go somewhere with her little brother when you wouldn't go anywhere with her."

Dean shrugged. "She's a bitch," he said. "And I'm not kidding. I don't give a flying . . ." He paused for a moment, then cleared his throat. "I don't care what she thinks. She's got her dopes, she can hang out with them."

"Dad says it's fine," Jeremy said, trotting back up. "But he wants me home by eleven."

"Not a problem," Dean replied. "It's a little bit of a walk to the movie theater, so let's head out."

When they got to the movie theater, they all stood in front of the glassed in booth, looking at the movie boards. "Have you seen _First Contact_ yet?" Jeremy asked.

Dean nodded. "Yeah, have you?"

"I don't see a lot of movies," Jeremy said with a shrug. "I end up going by myself, and getting a ride back isn't always easy."

"I'll take that for a no. Sammy?"

Sam shook his head. He'd seen _Mars Attacks_ with Dean back in December, but he hadn't seen a movie before that in months. "Sounds good to me," he said. "If you don't mind seeing it again."

"Let's see, aliens, hot babes, guys with guns, how can you go wrong?" They walked up to the window, and Dean bought three tickets for the showing that started at quarter to five. "That leaves about an hour to fart around. Anyone hungry?"

They had hot dogs and played video games until it was time to go in. Then Dean bought popcorn and sodas for all three of them. Sam settled down between Jeremy and Dean, and he kicked back.

Jeremy was clearly as much of a _Star Trek_ fan as Dean was, because he babbled about it all the way out of the theater. They'd called beforehand to let Dad know when the movie would be over so that they wouldn't have to wait for the thirty minutes it took to get into town from Bobby's.

A voice from the side of the theater made them all turn. "What, you stood me up so you could go out with my little brother?" Trish demanded, her tone a little strident. Dean turned his back on her and led the way towards the parking lot. There was unkind laughter behind them, and Sam wanted to go back and tell her off, but Dean caught his arm when he started to slow.

"Ignore her," he said quietly. "She'll get hers."

"Everyone thinks she's the nicest person ever," Jeremy said. "They have no idea what it's like living with her."

"She didn't sound very nice just now," Sam said, glancing back. He was startled to see Trish directing a burning, almost hate-filled look at Dean. "And she sure doesn't look very nice."

"She's got to torpedo herself sooner or later," Dean said. "And then she won't know what hit her."

* * *

Dean woke up late on Saturday morning for the first time in what seemed like ages. Sammy was already gone, and he stretched out, covering the entire bed. He lay still, staring up at the rotating fan above him. His life had certainly taken a turn for the weird, but it was a good turn. He had people he knew he could count on, people who seemed to think they could count on him.

He rousted himself out of bed and climbed the stairs to find Sammy . . . shockingly enough . . . doing his homework at the kitchen table. He had a bit to do, but he wasn't quite ready for that. "Bobby, does that hunk of junk still need work done?"

"It does," Bobby called back. "And I'm afraid I've been a little too focused to spend any time on it."

"You mind if I –"

"Go for it."

Dean grabbed a couple of slices of bread and dropped them in the toaster, munching on the bacon that was sitting on a plate under a paper towel on the counter while he waited. Breakfast done, he went outside into the brisk air to evaluate said hunk of junk. He rolled up his sleeves and dove in.

He was standing back, trying to decide which of the multitude of problems to work on first when he heard a voice behind him. "Hey, Dean."

He turned around to find Tiffany Prescott from his auto shop class standing there, an amorphous bag over her shoulder. "Hey, Tiff, what brings you here?"

"Parts quest. My dad's old Nova is having issues again."

"How old?"

She grinned. "Older than my oldest brother," she said. "1969, the summer of love."

"Chevy put out some good cars in the 60s, well worth saving," Dean said.

"What have you got going on here?"

He turned to the heap he'd been working on. "Bobby does some rebuilding for the local used car lots, I guess, and since I'm here and he's busy . . ." He shook his head. "This VW has seen way better days."

"It's not even that old, is it?"

"1987 Cabriolet," Dean said. "The top is in good shape, but the engine sucks. Someone drove her hard."

"But kept her clean," Tiffany said, walking around the car and touching the body. "Not much rust, which is impressive around here."

Dean nodded. "You been out here before?"

"Whenever I've got a project going," she said with a grin. "Mr. Singer and I are old friends."

"Don't you Mr. Singer me," Bobby growled. "How's it going, Dean?"

"I'm trying to decide what to do first," Dean said. "In the meantime, I thought I might help Tiff find what she's looking for."

"You keep this up, kid, and I'll have to start paying you."

Dean blinked at him. "Wow, that's a threat. You've got me quaking in my sneakers."

Bobby rolled his eyes. "I'm going into town for a bit. You, young lady, can pay me next time if I'm not back when you're ready to go."

"Sure," she said easily. Bobby headed off to his little hybrid Chevelle and drove away. Tiffany led off towards the section of the lot where the older cars were stored and stopped as she rounded the house and saw the Impala, standing there in all her glory.

Dean grinned. "That's my Uncle John's car," he said, feeling very proprietary despite the fact that he had no real claim on the Impala.

"She's magnificent," Tiffany said. "And she's in good running order?"

"Oh yes," Dean said.

"What year is that? Sixty-eight? Sixty-nine?"

"Sixty-seven," Dean said.

"Cool." She sighed. "Well, my Nova's not getting any help by my just standing here ogling your baby."

They started sorting through the junk, looking for the parts Tiffany needed, and Dean had a blast. There was something inestimably great about hanging with a girl and talking about cars. Sammy and Missouri went to working together on dinner, and once she'd gotten the parts she needed for her Nova, Tiffany came over to help him on the Cabriolet. When Bobby came back around half past four, they had her up and purring.

"Nice work, you two," he said, walking up as Tiffany gunned the engine again and Dean watched things under the hood.

"She's staying for dinner," Dean said.

"Glad to hear it," Bobby said. "That should put miss high and mighty's nose out of joint."

Dean gave him an irritated look. "Has Sammy been talking again?"

"He's been known to from time to time," Bobby said with a shrug.

Dean rolled his eyes. "I didn't invite her because of that," he said.

"I know that, Dean, it was just a comment." Bobby nudged him with his shoulder. "She's kind of cute, isn't she?"

Dean looked over at her inside the car, smudges on her cheeks, and he grinned.

* * *

John was amused by Dean's new friend, and by Sam's reaction to her. His younger son was somewhat jealous of the attention Dean was showing her, and he was hiding it poorly. Dean didn't seem to have noticed, but Tiffany had. Fortunately, the young woman appeared more sympathetic than annoyed by Sam's reactions, and she was handling him with kindness.

Oddly enough, it evidently hadn't occurred to Sam that Dean might feel jealous of Jeremy. John was sure he did, but he hid it better, by virtue both of being older and of having been exposed to the emotional whiplash of the foster care system. Dinner was pleasant, and Tiffany left shortly after helping Sam with the dishes.

As soon as she was gone, Sam dragged his brother upstairs for an evening of TV and games. John looked over at Bobby. "He didn't mind in the slightest that Dean had girlfriends in Fort William," he said.

"He didn't know Dean was his brother in Fort William," Bobby pointed out. "He didn't know he'd just been reunited with a brother he'd lost for five years. It makes a difference, John."

"I suppose so," John said. He knew he wanted to spend all his waking hours with Dean. The trouble was, he had to do things to protect his son that his son couldn't be present for, and Sam deserved alone time with his brother. "There are moments when I swear I'm still in shock. Dean is upstairs in the TV room right now, watching TV and hanging out with his little brother, and that fact still floors me from time to time."

Bobby snorted, nodding. "Well, I've made some progress on the markings. Not much, but some."

"Okay, what?" John asked, and Bobby led the way into the library.

"The one on his left side is Etruscan, I think. It's shape is a little less clear than the others, what with the extra scarring from the stitches."

"It didn't receive the full round of treatment," Missouri observed, walking in, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "I told you, it took as many as six or seven treatments with that stuff, whatever it was, for the one on his back to close up and stay that way."

John shook his head. "Right."

"I know Dean thinks that's why it's different from the others."

"Do you want to know what I've figured out?" Bobby asked, his voice rich with exaggerated patience.

"Please," John said.

"I think it's meant to be some kind of link between the spell caster and the object of the spell." John grimaced. "Sorry, John."

"Just say it, Bobby."

Bobby nodded, his eyes sympathetic. "The reason it doesn't work properly, I believe, is that, between them, Dean and his doctors damaged it. I'm not sure how much impact the packing of the wounds and all of that has on the final outcome of the glyph, but I think the stitches altered the shape too much to allow it to work."

"I ripped them once," Dean said, eyes wide. They all three turned to look at him standing in the doorway between the library and the kitchen.

"What do you mean?" Bobby asked.

"In the hospital, I had a massive flashback and one of the nurses tried to restrain me. I got away from her and ran away and hid in the courtyard garden." He shrugged and walked further into the room. "They had to restitch part of it because of that."

"Don't you have copies of photos taken of the design before that happened?" Bobby asked, and Dean nodded tautly. "Can I see them?"

Dean bit his lip, then turned and left the room. John closed his eyes. "It's in a file, Bobby," he said. "A social worker's file. I'm still not sure how he got hold of it, because I think it said something like 'placement file' on the tab."

"He stole it," Missouri said frankly. "Because he didn't want the social workers judging him by the marks on his skin instead of by who he'd become."

John grimaced and looked down. When Dean came back, he had the file, and he held it out to Bobby. "Nothing it says in here pertains to what really happened, because I stopped telling the truth long before this file was created," he said. "Only the pictures, so please, don't read it, and don't let Sammy see it."

"Of course not," Bobby said, taking the file.

As Dean stepped back, lowering his hands, he inadvertently bumped a folder and knocked it off the desk. He bent to pick it up automatically, but after a moment, John looked up to see that he had frozen solid, staring down. He hurried around the table and let out a heartfelt expletive. "Damn it, I'm sorry, Dean."

Bobby peered down and John saw his face contort into a mask of dismay.

Missouri came around and knelt beside Dean, pulling the pictures gently out of his palsied grasp. "Dean, we don't know what it means, and no one wanted to increase your stress by telling you that."

"He called them . . . pain receptors," Dean said, his voice oddly flat. "I don't know what he meant by that, I always thought he was making a joke about nerves and how much it hurt, but . . ." He shook his head. "Sammy's waiting for me. I have to go."

Before any of them could speak, Dean was gone out of the room. They could hear his feet as he took the stairs two at a time. None of the three of them spoke until after the sounds of his footsteps had been gone for a moment. Then Missouri cleared her throat, and both men turned to her.

"He called the process 'installing the pain receptors,'" she said. "And I can see why Dean took it as a joke. It was a joke, he just had the wrong interpretation." She shook her head. "I don't know any more than I did before about what they're made up of, but my guess is that they're a way to punish Dean if he didn't obey."

John closed his eyes and ground his teeth together. Missouri put a hand on his arm, meant to offer comfort no doubt, but he couldn't feel comfort. He couldn't feel anything other than blind rage that his son had been so devilishly tortured, with the intent of causing further pain down the line.

Several moments passed without any sound but the flipping of pages, then Bobby said, "I was right. Etruscan. Meant to create a connection between the caster and the object of the casting. It wasn't meant to be used on a human being, at least not according to this grimoire. It looks like our friend knew he'd created a problem for himself with the demon protection glyph, and this was his answer."

"If Dean hadn't escaped at that time . . ." John murmured, shaking his head, unable to voice the rest.

"If his escape had been a week, or even a day later, that glyph might have remained intact, and nothing anyone could have done would have protected Dean from the demon finding him again." Bobby's lips were pursed. "The demon must have regarded it as terribly bad timing."

John glowered at him. "I feel for him, I do, but somehow my focus is elsewhere."

"That's not what I meant, John," Bobby growled, then he rolled his eyes. "I understand that you're pissed, but taking it out on me doesn't get us anywhere."

John closed his eyes. "I know. I'm just . . . is there some way to take this crap off his body?"

"Do you really want to take away a protection against demons?" Bobby asked, and John stared at him in shock. "I don't want this crap scrawled all over him any more than you do, John, but I don't know if we want to remove something that keeps that demon away from him."

"That demon put it on him," John said.

"And I don't like it, either, but the fact is, we're all in agreement, Dean included, that the demon wasn't done with him."

"Not by a long shot," Missouri said.

"And we really don't want him coming back, so I don't know if we want to take his only real protection off him."

"What about his protection against the messengers of light? Do we leave that on him?" John asked, and his voice felt like a razor.

"I don't know, John, what the hell do angels want with our boy? I wish I had any idea what on earth is going on. That demon was clearly convinced that he had to keep Dean shielded from both other demons and angelic forces. What does that mean, John? I don't have the foggiest clue."

John shook his head. "Neither do I," he replied. "And I admit, it makes me nervous."

Bobby snorted. "It makes me downright paranoid."


	25. Chapter 25

Sam kept glancing sideways at Dean.  He’d gone down to get sodas for them, but he’d been gone a really long time.  Then when he’d returned, he’d radiated tension, and he didn’t bring any sodas.  Sam had considered suggesting that he go and get them, but he’d decided against it.  He didn’t want to stress Dean out.

They were watching _Rebel Without a Cause_ , but Dean’s tension hadn’t decreased at all over the last while.  The movie ended and a talking head came on to talk about James Dean and Natalie Wood and the impact the movie had on the era.  Sam grabbed the remote and turned the TV off.  “What happened while you were downstairs?” he asked.

Dean gave him wary look.  “What do you mean?”

“You learned something new about what happened to you, didn’t you?”

Dean blinked at him.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

Sam grimaced.  “You’ve been working with Missouri, and there’s only one reason I can think of for it.”  Dean was staring at him, and Sam wished he knew how to interpret his expression better.  “You don’t remember something, and she’s working with you to help you remember it.”

Dean shrugged.  “That’s happening sometimes, but it’s not why,” he said.  “It’s . . . I can’t talk about it.  At all.  I panic and freeze, and then I flash back.”  Sam wanted to ask him what it was that was so hard to talk about, but it was kind of a catch-22.  He wasn’t supposed to bug Dean about what was going on, but not knowing was driving him nuts.

“I wish I could help.”

“You do,” Dean said.  “Coming back up here and being able to pretend I have a normal life . . . it makes a big difference.”

“It doesn’t sound like much,” Sam said.

“When I’m with Dad and Missouri and Bobby, they know everything I know about what happened to me, and it’s all serious and dark and unhappy, especially John.  When I’m with you, I can be just a kid.  You’ve got to know what that’s like.  When your brother went missing, didn’t people treat you differently because they knew something was screwed up in your life?  Didn’t you sometimes just want people to pretend like everything was normal and you were just one of the guys, not ‘that boy whose brother was snatched by a psycho’?  That’s a quote, by the way, from a guy at school.”

Sam was dumbfounded.  He didn’t know what to say.  What Dean said was true, but he was still freaking over the slip of the tongue he’d made.  He’d called their father Dad, and then a second later he’d called him John.  He clearly didn’t remember, but there was some part of him that did.  Sam wondered what that meant, and what he should do.  “Yeah,” he said finally.  “I did.”

Dean grabbed the remote and settled back on the sofa again.  In a would-be casual voice, he said, “I hope you don’t find this offensive or anything, but I kind of wish you were my brother.”

Sam felt his eyes start to burn as tears filled them.  The thought that Dean wished they were brothers made him desperate to tell him that they _were_ brothers, but he didn’t dare.  He could sense the tension growing in Dean beside him, and he realized that Dean probably thought he objected or something.  “I don’t mind,” he said, and his voice was wobbly.  “I . . . I like it.”

Dean reached out and squeezed the back of Sam’s neck.  Clearing his throat, he changed the subject.  “I wonder if Bobby would mind if I got a Playstation or something so we could play games up here,” he said as he flipped through the channels, looking for something to watch.

“I doubt it,” Sam said, his voice under better control.  “He might even use it himself.”

“I’ll ask him later.”  He leaned forward.  “Hey, _The Simpsons_ , but it’s a few minutes till it starts.”

“Then I’m going to grab a soda,” Sam said.  “You want some soda and chips?”

“Sure.”

Sam tromped down the stairs and glanced into the library.  Bobby and Dad were leaning over a book, and Missouri was nowhere to be seen.  “How’s it going?” he asked.

“Fine, Sam,” his father said, but he sounded choked up, and Sam started towards him.  Dad held a hand up to forestall him.  “It’s okay, tiger.”

“You’re crying,” Sam said.

He shrugged.  “I’m okay, just a little upset.”

“You never cry.”

“He never cries in front of you,” Bobby amended.  “Most of the time, he keeps it hidden.”  Sam’s father glared at Bobby, but he didn’t dispute the statement.  “What did you need?”

“I was just going to grab some soda and snacks.”  He opened the fridge.  “By the way, Dean was talking about buying a game system for the TV up there.  Would you mind that?  I think he intended for it to live here.”

“I don’t care,” Bobby said.  “You guys are welcome whenever, you know that.  You can leave anything you want with me.”

“Cool,” Sam said.  He grabbed the chips and went back upstairs.  “Bobby says he doesn’t mind if you buy a game system,” he said.  “He told me we can leave anything we want to with him.”

Dean took his soda and snagged the chips away from Sam.  “Then we’ll have to get one of them to take us out to the nearest Wal-Mart or electronics store.  Maybe tomorrow.”

Sam looked at the screen.  “Oh, look, it’s starting.”  They sat down on the sofa and started watching together.  At the commercial, Sam gathered his courage to ask a question he’d been wondering about all day.  “So, do you really like Tiffany?”

Shrugging, Dean said, “She’s cool.  It’s kind of weird to hang with a girl who actually knows what a transmission is for.”

That didn’t really answer the question, but Sam didn’t want to be pushy.  He wanted to know if Dean _liked her_ liked her, but maybe it was a dumb question anyway.  Dean liked girls, that much was evident from the way he’d acted in Fort William.  Maybe she was just another one of his many female friends.  He wondered why Dean never seemed to have guy friends.

On Sunday, Dad and Dean made another grocery run, and Sam stayed home to help Bobby around the house.  It was Bobby’s suggestion that they give Dean and Dad some time alone together, and Sam thought it was probably a good idea.

“Bobby?” he said while Bobby was sweeping the kitchen floor, and he was putting the dishes from the dishwasher away.

“Yeah?”

“Dean called Dad ‘Dad’ last night, and he did it again this morning.”

Bobby stood up straight and leaned on the broom.  “What do you mean?”

“I mean Dean said ‘Dad and Bobby and Missouri’ last night to say that you guys were all working together, and this morning he said, ‘I’m going with Dad to get some groceries,’ but he clearly still doesn’t remember.”

Bobby’s brows knit.  “And that doesn’t sound sarcastic or humorous,” he said thoughtfully.

“If we’re afraid something will happen if someone tells him, what do you think will happen if he figures it out for himself?”

Bobby’s jaw worked like he was swallowing.  “Honestly, Sam, I’m not sure he can.  Even if he subconsciously knows the truth, I’m not sure his mind will let him acknowledge it.”

“Weird,” Sam said.  “But if someone said it outright?”

“It could be anything from migraine level pain to him simply panicking and turning around to run away.”

“Is there some reason you’re so sure about that?” Sam asked.  “I mean, something he remembers or something about things he’s said?”

Bobby shook his head.  “We’re back into the realms of things I can’t tell you, kid.”

Sam glowered at him, his jaw set, then looked away with an irritated sigh.  “I hate this, but Dean really wants me to be normal with him.”  He gave Bobby an anxious look.  “Would I not be normal with him if I knew whatever this was?”

Bobby was silent for a long moment, then he walked over and leaned against the counter next to where Sam was standing.  “Sam, we’re adults, and _we_ have trouble putting the things we know about Dean on the back burner when we’re talking to him about other stuff.”

Sam stared at him, processing what that meant.  “So . . . it’s bad.”

Bobby closed his eyes, his head dropping.  “It’s worse than you can imagine.”

“I can imagine quite a lot,” Sam said, his eyes starting to burn again.

Bobby pulled him close and hugged him.  “I know, kid.  I know.”  Tears began to flow at Bobby’s sympathetic tone, and he clutched onto his surrogate father, the way he had three years before when he’d been the only one who’d understood.  “Don’t worry, Sam, everything’s going to be fine.”

“It’s not,” he replied, his voice half smothered against Bobby’s chest.  “Dean wishes he was my brother and I can’t tell him he is, and something’s so badly wrong that no one thinks I can handle knowing about it and he thinks the demon’s still after him and I don’t know why or what we’re doing to stop him, and I’m afraid he’ll meet some girl and fall in love and I’ll lose him again.”  He burst into noisy sobs, and the emotions he’d been holding in check for the last few weeks emerged.

Bobby held him tight and stroked his hair.  After a while, when Sam’s sobs had died down a bit, he said, “Do you want to talk about any of that?”  Sam shook his head fervently, and Bobby just squeezed him and let go, squatting down to look him in the eye.  “Anytime you need to do that, Sam, you just come to me.  Don’t wait so long, kid, you’ll explode.”

“You and Dad have enough –”

“Stop right there, Sam,” Bobby said.  “Yeah, your dad is a little pushed right now, but I’m always here.  You come to me with anything.  You got that?”

Sam nodded.  He gave Bobby a tight hug, then cleared his throat.  “I’m going to go . . . go for a walk outside.  Okay?”

“Sure.  Be good.”

Sam smiled at him weakly and left the house.  He needed a little space.  The cold dry air made the heat of his face dissipate quickly.  He walked out towards the cave, knowing that he wouldn’t run into Jeremy because they were off visiting his grandparents.  He could be sure he’d be alone for a while.

* * *

John let Dean have his own head with the guys at Best Buy.  First, it was his money he was spending.  Second, John knew nothing whatsoever about Ataris or whatever it was Dean was buying.  Game console meant nothing to him, and he equated video games with the gigantic machines found in arcades, but he somehow doubted that Dean was buying something to play Pacman on.

He wandered into the music section, glancing at the little square boxes that were CDs.  He’d never bought a CD in his life, but it seemed he might have to start buying them for both Sammy and Dean.  They did seem smaller and a touch easier to store.  He accosted one of the handy people in blue and asked a few questions.  Maybe he’d have to upgrade the Impala’s sound system a bit sometime soon.

In the meantime, he thought he’d fill in some of Sam’s music collection for him.

“Excuse me,” said a faintly nasal voice beside him. 

John looked up and saw a tall man in a suit.  He had receding dark brown hair and kind of a big nose.  “Yeah?” he said, looking back at the Metallica section.

“I understand you’ve found your son Dean,” the man said.

This whipped John’s head around again.  “Who the hell are you?”

“My name is Zachariah,” he said.

“And I care?” John demanded in a low voice, glancing over at Dean.  “What do you know about my son?”

“That he was taken from you when he was twelve, that it wasn’t supposed to happen, and that he is entirely invisible to me and my brethren.”  He looked in the direction of John’s glance.  “Is he here?”

“None of your business,” John snapped.  “You and your brethren would be who, precisely?”  He glowered at the bastard.

“Angels, John.  Now, we must keep Dean safe.  He can’t be permitted to fall into the hands of the demons again.”

John narrowed his eyes.  “You come anywhere near me or my sons again, and I’ll kill you.  How’s that for keeping him safe?”

Zachariah gave him a condescending look.  “Yes, and you’ve done such a bang up job, so far.  You lost him altogether for five years and found him . . . how?  That we don’t know.”

“And that you never will know,” John said.  “If you come near my son, I will kill you.”  He put the CD back on the rack and walked to Dean’s side.  He was just finishing up at the register.  John picked up the bag and took Dean’s arm, guiding him out of the store.

“Is something wrong, John?” Dean asked.  John started to respond, but at the sound of Zachariah’s voice, John turned, tucking Dean behind him, still holding tight to his arm.

“He’s here, isn’t he?” Zachariah demanded, looking around, clearly not seeing the boy in plain sight behind John.  “He must be protected, John, and you have to see that you’re not the one to protect him.”

“I will shoot you,” John said.

“It wouldn’t harm me, John,” Zachariah replied.  “I’m an angel.  It would damage the body of the nice man I’m inhabiting, I’d fix it, and that would be that.”

“John . . .”  Dean said, and John could hear the anxiety in his voice.  Zachariah had said he couldn’t see Dean.  Did that mean he couldn’t hear him?

“Now, we have resources that you simply can’t muster.  You need to give Dean to us so we can keep him safe.  Where is he?”

“John, what’s going on?”  Dean was suddenly clutching him tightly, and John saw that Zachariah could see the way his shirt was pulled by Dean’s hands.

“Dean, you need to come with us,” Zachariah said, addressing Dean directly despite the fact that he obviously still couldn’t see him.  “It’s the only way to keep your family safe.”

John started backing across the parking lot.  Still clinging to him like a limpet, Dean moved backwards with him.  “Dean isn’t your concern.  Get away from me.”

A man passing beside them slowed at the peculiar sight and said, “Hey, do you need me to call the cops?”

John looked over to see which of the two of them the stranger was talking to.  The man was looking at him, so he said, “He’s threatening my son, so maybe that would be a good idea.”  Glaring at Zachariah, the man whipped out a cell phone.

“Never mind, John,” Zachariah said, sounding amused as he met John’s eyes.  “I’ll talk to you later.”  Looking into the air behind John, he said, “Dean, we will be seeing each other again.”  Then he strolled off, and the stranger lowered his phone.

“You still want me to call?” he asked.

John shook his head.  “Thanks, though.”

“You should report it.”

John nodded.  “I’ll take care of it.  Thank you.”

The stranger pocketed his phone and handed John his business card.  “If you need me to tell anyone what I saw, I will.”

John took the card and thanked him again, then put his arm around Dean and led him to the car.  Unlocking the trunk, he put the bag inside and slammed it shut again.  He turned to Dean to find his son staring at him as if shell-shocked.  He put his hands on Dean’s shoulders.  “It’s okay, Dean, he won’t be able to find you.  He couldn’t even see you.”

“What does he want?”

“I don’t know.”  Dean looked at him in utterly bewildered near-panic.  “Let’s get back to Bobby’s,” John said.  “We can talk in the car.”

Dean nodded slowly, and he let John lead him to the passenger door so he could unlock it and let him inside.  John went around to the driver’s side and climbed in.  “Who was that guy?” Dean asked the minute the door closed.

“He said his name was Zachariah and that he was an angel.”

“I heard that.  How could he be an angel?  Why couldn’t he see me?  What does he want?”

John shook his head.  “I don’t know,” he said.  “But he’s not going to get hold of you, Dean.  I’ll see to that.”

“An angel?” Dean said.

“We have no reason to believe he’s really an angel,” John said.

“Then why couldn’t he see me?”

“I don’t know,” John said, shaking his head.  “Let’s get back to Bobby’s.  We can find out what he thinks.”  Dean nodded, and John pulled out from the space and headed towards Bobby’s place.  They could go back, find out what Bobby thought, then pack up and pull out again.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on messages I've gotten, there appears to be some confusion regarding the base premise of this story, so, in case I'm right, I thought I'd try to clear it up. Also, I referenced the wrong episode initially here, which can't have helped matters any. Anyway, if this all makes you go 'duh!', please forgive me my paranoia. If it doesn't, I hope it helps.
> 
> In S4xE3 In the Beginning, Dean travels back in time with Castiel to 1973. Among the other things he does there, he meets Azazel. During this meeting, he tells the demon that he, Dean, will be the one who kills him, clearly implying in the future, since Azazel has recognized him as a time traveler. In the episode, Azazel appears to take this as more of a threat than a fact. The premise of this story is that, as time passed towards the present, Azazel contemplated Dean, and in retrospect began to wonder if that statement was more than it seemed. So, in 1991, he kidnaps the 12yo Dean Winchester and . . . therein lies my tale.
> 
> I love this premise so much that I have an entire other series with the working title of Pilot AU, in which Azazel waits to grab Dean until 2005, right before the events that, in the show, lead to Dean's going and getting Sammy and taking him on a trip to look for Dad, which leads to Sam and Dad looking for Dean instead. Will probably start posting the first book of that when I finish posting this one, the first of the Highways and Byways series. (Yes, the sequel to this is well underway, Warning, Bumpy Road Ahead, and some folks who have made predictions/guesses are right about what's already coming down the pike. See that? Made another roadway pun!!)
> 
> Now, take a deep breath and remember that Zachariah just scared the pants off Dean and John.

* * *

Sam hung out at the cave for a while, thinking dark thoughts, trying to come up with things that could have happened to Dean that were beyond his imagination.  He started freaking himself out a little, though, so he decided he’d better go back home.

It was later than he thought, and it had started to get dark.  He came around a corner onto a short stretch of the main road and saw a man standing under one of the rare street lights that dotted the highway.  He looked about twenty, and he had short dark hair and a brooding quality to his expression.  He was wearing a trench coat and Sam wondered what he was doing out in the middle of nowhere.

When he saw Sam, he came straight for him, bright blue eyes focused on him.  “Sam Winchester, I must speak with you.”  His voice was low and intense.

Sam’s eyes widened.  He grabbed the water gun full of holy water he kept in his pocket and sprayed the man full in the face before taking off running down the narrow track that his and other feet had created between Bobby’s place and the road.

“I am not a demon, Sam!” called the man.

Sam didn’t stop, and a moment later, the man appeared about ten feet further along his path, about two feet to the left of the track in the scrubby brush and snow.  Sam stopped dead.  He was right next to the best route back to Bobby’s.  Any other path would take an hour or more of walking to get there.  “Who are you?” he asked, fingering his water pistol.  It still had water in it.

“My name is Castiel.  I am an angel of the Lord.”

“An angel of the Lord?” Sam repeated.  “You mean, like, God?”  Castiel nodded.  “Why are you here?”

“I am here to guard Dean, but some of what has been done to him prevents me from seeing him.  As a result, I will be staying near you since I know that Dean will be near you.  I wished to alert you to the fact that I will be around so that you would not panic upon seeing me repeatedly.”

“What’s been done to him?” Sam asked.  “No one will tell me.”

Castiel’s eyes grew troubled.  “You know he was taken by a demon and tortured,” he said.  Sam nodded.  “And that there are spells on him?”  Sam nodded again.  “One of them is a protection against angels, so that we could not come to his aid or find him.”

Sam blinked at him.  “Can I do something?  I need to . . . I need to check something.”

Castiel sighed.  “If you must.”

“Christo,” he said, and he dug in his pocket for the baggy of salt he kept there.

“I am not the Christ,” Castiel replied.

“I didn’t think you were, but demons can’t stand the sound of His name.”

“Lower level demons cannot, but you must not trust to it all the time.”

Sam blinked at him.  “Really?”

“More powerful demons have immunities to the name of the Lord, holy water, and salt.”  Castiel tilted his head.  “The one who took your brother is one of those.”

“So . . . throwing salt at you won’t prove anything?” Sam asked, fingering the baggy before stuffing it back away.

Castiel pursed his lips soberly.  “You require proof?”

Sam shrugged.  “I can’t just trust you,” he said earnestly.  “I mean, a demon kidnapped by brother when I was eight, and another one killed my mother when I was six months old.  You could be another one, pretending to be an angel.”

Suddenly there was a vast sense of power, and a shadow of wings arose behind Castiel against the brush and rocks around him.  They were gigantic, and the power Sam sensed was entirely benign.  He’d had enough experience of the other kind to recognize the difference.  He felt tears spring to his eyes.  “Why didn’t you come when Dean disappeared?” he asked.  “When I was alone and frightened?  I prayed for help then.”

“And help came.  Your father, and Bobby Singer.”  The power dissipated and the wings vanished.

Sam bit his lip.  “But . . .”  He shook his head.  The question was pointless.

“If you need me, call for me.  I will be nearby at all times.”  There was a sound of beating wings, and then Castiel was gone as if he’d never been there.  Sam hurried forward.  Not quite.  There were footprints in the snow and dead grass.

* * *

Missouri was an excellent cook, Bobby thought.  Having her here was going to put extra inches on his waistline, that was for certain sure.  He walked over to the stove and stirred the stew, then took a bit of it on the spoon and tasted it.

He felt a smack on the back of his head.  “It will be ready for us soon enough,” she said.  “Don’t spoil your dinner.”

“Nothing could spoil me for this dinner,” he said.

“Flatterer,” she muttered, but she seemed pleased.

He heard the front door open, and a moment later he heard the back door open, too.  “Sounds like everyone’s back now,” he said.

“Surely does.  Dinner will be ready in an hour.”  She snatched the spoon back from him and stirred the stew.  “No more sneaking a taste.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ll be down in a while.”  She left the room towards the stairs.  Bobby wondered if her tendency to go off on her own lately stemmed from her growing closeness with the family.  It might be getting harder to block them out.

Sam walked into the kitchen, out of breath, and his eyes were a little wild.  At almost the same time, John and Dean walked in.  Dean looked freaked and John looked angry.  It looked like everyone else had had an interesting day.  Bobby looked back and forth between them.  “Dinner will be ready in about an hour.”

“Good,” John said.  “Sam, go get packed.  We’re leaving after dinner.”

“What?” Bobby exclaimed.  “I thought you weren’t going anywhere till this was all figured out.”

“We can’t leave, Dad,” Sam said.  “I just met an angel.”

Dean’s eyes widened, and John walked over and seized his younger son into a tight hug.  “That settles it, we are leaving now.”

“But Dad!” Sam protested, pushing his father back.  “I met an angel.”

“That was not an angel, Sammy,” John said gravely, going down into a squat to put his eyes on Sam’s level.  “I don’t know what it was, but it wasn’t an angel.”

Dean looked like he was going to faint, and Bobby walked around to him.  “Dean, sit down,” Bobby said, putting his hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“It _was_ an angel,” Sam said.  “He showed me his wings.”

Bobby guided Dean to a chair and sat him down, wishing he could sink down himself.  “Wings?” he asked.

John took Sam by the shoulders.  “What, some guy walks up to you and announces he’s an angel and you just believe him?” he demanded.  “You listen to him?”

Sam squared off with his father.  “No.  I sprayed him with holy water and I said the name of God to him.”  John grimaced and shook his head.  “And he told me that not all demons are affected by that.  That the higher level ones have immunities to things like holy water and salt, and that the one who took Dean was like that.”

“So he told you that your only way to identify a demon wouldn’t work,” John asked, and Bobby could tell that he was badly shaken.  “That doesn’t make him an angel.”

“What did he want, Sammy?” Dean asked, and his voice was unsteady.

Sam turned towards him.  “He wants to protect you.  He wanted me to know that because he can’t see you, so he’s going to be hanging around me, and –”

“He’s going to what?” John demanded.

Sam’s back was ramrod straight, and his voice was firm.  “He didn’t want me to freak because I was seeing him around.”

“Dean and I met your angel today, Sammy,” John said.  “At Best Buy.  And he tried to take Dean away from me.”

“Castiel tried to take Dean away?” Sam exclaimed incredulously.

Dean looked up at John.  “I thought you said his name was Zachariah.”

“It was,” John said, clearly startled.  “What did this guy look like, Sam?”

Sam shrugged.  “Brown hair, blue eyes, maybe twenty.”  John blinked at him.  “Like a young Tom Hanks, kind of.”

“Not the same guy?” Bobby asked, because John seemed thunderstruck.

“It doesn’t matter,” John replied with a certainty that appeared forced to Bobby.  “He’s still not an angel.  There are no angels.”

“He talked about them,” Dean said into the silence that followed John’s pronouncement.

John turned towards him.  “Who talked about what?”

“The demon,” Dean said.  “He talked about them a lot.  Angels.  It was crazy, what he said, but he blamed them for a lot of stuff.”

“What did he say?” Bobby asked, sure that it had to be important.

“I said it was crazy stuff, Bobby,” Dean said.

“What?” Bobby repeated.

Dean shrugged.  “Time travel,” he said.  “He kept talking about angels and time travel.”

“Time travel?” Bobby exclaimed.

“I told you, crazy.”

“Let’s see,” Sam said.  “Castiel!” he yelled.

There was a sound like wings beating and then a young man stood beside Bobby’s refrigerator, about two feet from Sam.  He matched Sam’s description, and he was staring at the boy.  “You called?”

John had his .45 out instantly and pointing at the young man.  He grabbed Sam by the arm and yanked his younger son behind him.  Bobby seized a knife and stepped between the intruder and Dean, who had gone entirely still.  “Who the hell are you?” Bobby demanded.

The stranger turned towards him.  “I am Castiel, an angel of the Lord,” he said.  Turning back, he said, “Sam, why did you call for me?”

Sam started to step forward, around his father, but John caught his arm.  Sam gave his father a glare, then said, “I wanted to ask you about time travel.”

“What about it?”

“Is it possible?”

“For you, no,” Castiel replied.

“For an angel?” Sam asked.  Castiel didn’t answer.

“You stay away from my boys, you . . . whatever you are,” John snarled.

“I mean them no harm, John,” Castiel replied.  “And I cannot leave.  I have been sent to protect Dean.”

“Where is he?” John asked.

Castiel shook his head.  “I cannot see him.  The spell Azazel wrought guarantees that.  We have not yet worked out how to break through it.”

“How exactly do you propose to protect someone you can’t see?” John asked.  Bobby thought it seemed a fair question.  “Even assuming I believe you to begin with.”

“That’s why I’m watching Sam,” Castiel said, nodding at the boy.  “If there is any demon activity in Sam’s vicinity, I will be on hand to take care of it, and thereby protect Dean to the best of my ability.”

“See, Dad, he doesn’t want to take Dean away.”

“Take him away?” Castiel said, sounding appalled.  “Of course not.”

“That’s interesting,” John snapped.  “Since a friend of yours named Zachariah tried to take him from me today.”

“Zachariah?” Castiel repeated intently.  “He came after Dean?”

“Yeah,” John said, his voice hard and angry.  “Why?”

“There are factions among the angels,” Castiel said, and Bobby thought it figured.  Castiel’s eyes narrowed.  “Tell me, did Zachariah manage to touch him?”

“He couldn’t see him,” John replied curtly.

“I realize that, but there is a theory abroad that if one of us manages to touch him, that one will be able to see him afterwards.  Zachariah’s plans make him almost as dangerous as Azazel.”

“Who is this Azazel?” John asked.

“The demon who had me,” Dean said, and Bobby turned towards him in surprise.  In fact, they all did, all but Castiel.

“He is the demon who abducted Dean five years ago,” Castiel said.  He looked at the three he could see, all turned away from him.  “Is Dean here now?”

“Don’t you even think about going near him,” John growled, and Bobby put a hand on Dean’s shoulder to reassure him.  The boy was shaking like a leaf.

“I will make no attempt to touch him,” Castiel said soberly.  “If he chooses to be seen by me, he can touch me.”

Bobby squeezed Dean’s shoulder, and Dean looked up at him.  His pupils were so huge there was practically no iris left, but Bobby got no bad feelings about this Castiel guy.  He didn’t know what to think.  Sam was usually a pretty good judge of character, and Bobby trusted the kid.

Missouri walked into the room and did a double take.  “Holy Christ,” she breathed.

Castiel turned to her.  “I am not the Christ,” he said soberly.

“I know that,” she said, her voice breathless with astonishment.  “You’re an angel.”  She turned to Bobby.  “Robert Singer, why didn’t you tell me there was an angel here?” she demanded.

“He’s only been here for a couple of minutes,” Bobby protested.

“He is not an angel!” John growled at her.  “He’s . . .”  He gestured wildly towards Castiel.  “I don’t know what he is, but he’s not an angel!”

“John Winchester, have I ever lied to you?” Missouri demanded angrily, and John’s eyes widened.  She pointed at Castiel.  “That is an angel.”

Dean suddenly rose and left the room.  They could all hear his feet on the stairs down to the basement.  Apparently even Castiel could, because he turned his head in that direction.  Sam looked back and forth between the man who was apparently an angel and the door where Dean had gone.  Then he took off and they could hear more footsteps on the basement stairs.

“Was that Dean?” Castiel asked, his eyes on the door Sam had exited through.

John shoved his gun into the back of his pants and surged across towards Castiel, seizing him by the front of his trench coat and shoving him up against the fridge.  Missouri let out small cry of dismay.  “Never you mind,” John replied sharply.  “What the hell do you people want with him?”

“My only goal is to keep him safe, John,” Castiel said calmly.

“Why?” Bobby asked.

Castiel turned to him, his brows knit.  “Do you not want to keep him safe?”

“Of course I do,” Bobby snapped.  “But I’m not an angel of the Lord,” he pointed out.  “I’ve known him since he was four years old.  What’s your percentage?”

“I do not understand the question.”

“What are you getting out of it?” Bobby asked irritably.

“Dean Winchester has been my particular charge since before he was born,” Castiel said.  “I have been assigned to watch him since he was conceived.”  John’s hands relaxed abruptly, and he stepped back, looking dumbfounded.

This new information just pissed Bobby off.  “Then you really fucked up about six years ago,” he growled.

“I know,” Castiel said, and there was real regret in his eyes.  “I cannot tell you how much I regret not disobeying at that time.”

“Disobeying?” Bobby repeated.  “Disobeying what?”

“The orders of my superiors,” Castiel said.

“But you just said you were there to protect my son,” John said.  “What orders?”

“That is my current mission.  At that time, my orders were to observe but not interfere.”

“So you watched a demon carry my son away with him and did nothing.”

“I should have disobeyed, but I had my orders.  You were a soldier.  You should understand that.”

John rocked backwards slightly, his expression going stonier.  “How dare you!” he snarled.  “My son was taken by a demon and tortured for more than a month, and you ask me to understand why you didn’t act.”

Bobby was intrigued by this man – angel – whatever.  The expression in his eyes grew even more anguished, and he nodded.  “If I could make the decision again, I would not act as I did then,” he said.  “But I cannot change the past any more than you can.”

“Where have you been these last five years?” John asked.  “While he languished in foster care with an abusive family?”

“Searching for him,” Castiel said.

“But you can’t see him or scry him out,” Bobby said.  “How did you hope to find him?”  Castiel simply turned to him, and Bobby blinked.  “Are you saying that you spent the last five years in a search you knew had to be fruitless?”

“I have checked in with John and Sam from time to time, knowing that their behavior would tell me if they had found him or not.  I knew he was not dead, beyond that, I –”

John seized him by the shirtfront again and slammed him into the refrigerator.  “If I had known that, I would never have stopped looking!” he growled.  “I thought he was dead.  I thought that’s why the scrying didn’t work.  I believed he was dead!”

Bobby could hear the guilt in John’s voice, and he wondered if Castiel could.

“If I had come to you four years ago and told you I was an angel and that Dean was still alive, would you have believed me?” Castiel asked.  “You still did not yet believe in demons.  Could you have accepted an angel?”

John shoved Castiel away and turned his back on him.  “We’ll never know, will we?” he said, but Bobby thought he knew the answer, and he though John did, too.

“I must go, but I will always be nearby.  Call me if I am needed.”

There was another sound of wings, and Castiel was gone in a flash of warm light.

John whirled.  “Son of a bitch!”  He grabbed his keys.  “I’m getting the boys.  We’re going now.”

“John!” Bobby called as he started to leave the room.  “Wait!”

“What?” John demanded, turning back.

“Where will you go?” Bobby asked.  “The angels can find you and Sam even if they can’t find Dean.”  John stared at him, eyes narrowed.  “Unless you two separate from him, which I frankly don’t recommend.”  John’s jaw muscles were taut, and Bobby was afraid the man was digging holes in his own palms with the way he was clenching his fists.  “Stay here, where there are more people to watch the both of them.  Out there on the road, there’s just you and them.  Here there’s me and any number of adults at the school who will notice if something goes wrong.  When you move them every five minutes, the schools don’t know whether they’re missing if they don’t turn up one day or if you’ve just left town.”

“Bobby, I don’t . . .”  Tears had begun to stream down John’s face.  “You don’t understand.  I’ve been fighting this since Mary died.  Something – someone – has been trying to take one or the other of them away from me since the very beginning.  And now this ‘angel’ says that he’s been watching Dean since he was in the womb?”  John shook his head, his expression full of dismay and doubt.  “The only answer I’ve ever had was to get the hell out of dodge.”

“I know that, John,” Bobby said.  He’d always assumed that John’s certainty that someone was out to take his boys was paranoia, and that Dean’s kidnapping had been more of an opportunistic strike at a particularly effective and relentless hunter, but the last couple of weeks had made him doubt that.  Today’s events made it seem even less likely.  He walked over and put a hand on John’s shoulder.  “Look at it this way.  Here they’re protected from demons at night, and we might be able to expand the protection to angels as well if I can figure out how to use that glyph myself.”  He shook his head.  “I can’t help feeling that they’re even more vulnerable on the road.  Hell, you heard Dean.  If someone grabbed Sam – and that would undoubtedly include Zachariah – Dean would do anything to protect him.”  John went pale.  “Seriously, John, they’re better off here where there’s more resources and a truly safe bolt hole if things get really weird.”

John’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.  “Fine.  You better get some work done on a protection against angels for the panic room, then.”

“Why would you need to protect your boys against angels, John?” Missouri asked.  Bobby glanced over, and he could see that she was lost and more than a little alarmed.  John’s jaw tightened again, and Bobby squeezed his shoulder to quiet him.

“Because a member of another ‘faction’ of angels – according to Castiel – tried to take Dean away from John today while they were out.  Obviously, they’re not as trustworthy as we might prefer.”

“Assuming we can believe anything Castiel said,” John added.  “For all we know, Zachariah realized that he screwed up so they sent someone else to slip under our guard.”  He met Bobby’s eyes.  “Get me some angel protections up, Bobby.”

“On it,” Bobby replied, and he headed into the library to look over the notes he’d made and Missouri’s writings.  He wondered if Castiel – again assuming they could trust him – could help them with this.

* * *

When Sam got into the bedroom, Dean was lying full length on the bed, on top of the covers, his back to the door, and his shoulders were shaking.  Sam climbed onto the bed with his brother and put a hand on his shoulder, not sure what to do.  Dean’s shoulders stiffened briefly, but he didn’t pull away.  “Sammy?” he asked after a moment.

“Yeah,” Sam said.  Dean buried his face in his hands, and Sam got the impression he was trying to calm himself down, but he didn’t seem to be having much success.  “Dad won’t let anything happen to you, Dean,” Sam said, all too aware that Dad had let something happen to him.  “Not ever again,” he added.

Dean’s crying slowed after a few minutes, but he didn’t turn.  His voice choked and broken, he said, “Are you scared, Sammy?”

Sam blinked down at him.  “Scared for you, yeah,” he said.  “Nothing seems to want me.”

Dean rolled over.  His eyes and nose were red and swollen.  “This angel guy is following you.”

“Castiel?” Sam asked, and Dean nodded.  “I don’t mind him,” Sam said.  “He . . . I don’t know, he seems like what he says he is.”

“You trust him?” Dean asked, and Sam nodded.  “I think . . . I think Azazel mentioned him,” he said, and Sam’s eyes widened.  “I think he blamed Castiel for some of what . . .”  His eyes closed and he shook his head.  “I don’t understand most of what I do remember.  It’s in so many pieces that I can’t make sense of it.”

“You think Azazel – that’s the demon, right?”  Dean nodded.  “You think he did some of what he did to you because of Castiel?”

“I don’t know,” Dean said.  “None of it makes sense.”

“Well, I can tell you what does make sense,” Sam said, straightening his back, and Dean looked up at him skeptically.  “Dad and I are going to make sure that no demon and no angel ever has a chance to do anything bad to you ever again.”

“How?” Dean asked.

“I don’t know,” Sam said, deflating slightly.  “But Dad and Bobby will come up with something.”

Dean blinked at him, then nodded slowly.  “I believe they’ll try.”  He looked away, his eyes sort of distant, then he sighed.  “Maybe I should just go,” he murmured.

“What do you mean, go?” Sam demanded.

Dean looked up.  “Did I say that out loud?” he asked with wide eyes.

Sam grabbed his brother’s arm.  “What do you mean, go?”

“Look, Sammy, I’m putting you and your dad in danger.  Angels, demons, what have you, it’s all –”

“No!” Sam exclaimed.  “You’re not going anywhere.  I’ll tell Dad and he’ll make you stay.”

“Sammy, I –”

“How would you leaving make us any less in danger?” Sam asked.

“If I’m not with you, they won’t come after me where you are,” Dean pointed out with what he clearly thought to be irrefutable logic.

“They can’t see you, Dean,” Sam retorted.  “How would they know you were gone?  They’re not even sure you’re here.”

Dean opened his mouth to reply, but then he stopped, jaw slack.  He ran his hands through his hair.  “I never thought of that,” he said, rubbing his face.  He almost seemed surprised when his fingers came away wet.  He thumped his head against the pillow.  “I’m sorry, Sammy.  I’m not supposed to cry all over you.”

“I don’t mind,” Sam said.  “I mean, I mind that you have reason to cry, but you’d let me . . . um . . . if I needed . . .”  He trailed off.  “You know.”

“I do,” Dean said with a weak laugh.  They were both silent for a few minutes, the Dean said, “So, what can they see, do you suppose?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, they can’t see me, and I’m guessing they can’t hear my voice, but I’m pretty sure that Zach could see something when I grabbed your dad.”  Dean looked embarrassed by this admission, but Sam decided to ignore it.

“Castiel heard you going down the stairs,” Sam said.

Dean nodded slowly.  “Good to know,” he said.  “If I see Zach, I’ll tell you so you can get a look at him.  And I won’t do anything that I know he’ll be able to see or hear, but that’s why I asked what they could see.”

“Well, I’m guessing they can’t see your clothes,” Sam said.  “Because if they could, they’d just zero in on the empty jeans and t-shirt walking around.”

This time Dean really did laugh.  “That’s a weird image, Sammy.  My clothes walking around without me.”

Sam nodded.  “But I’d bet that means that anything you’re holding is invisible, too.  We could test it sometime, maybe, if Castiel is around.  See if he can see your books or stuff like that.”

“That would mean I couldn’t drop anything when they’re around,” Dean said.  “Or pick anything up.”

“Unless it turns out they can see stuff you’re carrying,” Sam pointed out.  “Then you’ll have to drop whatever it is and get the heck away from it.”

“Right.”  Dean sat up against the head of the bed.  “So, does a backpack count as clothing, or as carrying something?’

Sam blinked.  “I never thought of it like that.”  He got up, walked over to the desk and grabbed a pad of paper and a pen.  “Okay, let’s write down some questions to ask next time we see Castiel.”

“You want to write down questions for an angel,” Dean said dryly.

“So we don’t forget any,” Sam said earnestly.  He sat cross-legged on the bed and bent to the pad.  “Can you see things he’s holding?” he said as he wrote the words down.

Dean tilted his head.  “If he can see stuff I’m holding in my hands, can he see the backpack on my back?”  Sam nodded and started writing again.  “Do things vanish from his sight when I pick them up?”  Grinning, Sam kept writing.  If he couldn’t know what all was really going on, at least he could keep Dean’s spirits up.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you are also reading Rebound (NCIS), I'm very sorry. Otherwise, I'm not sorry at all. ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Misha fans (and everyone else), there is a super awesome event upcoming called _The Greatest International Scavenger Hunt the World Has Ever Seen_ or GISHWHES that Misha sponsors. It's a charity event, lots of crazy fun, and you can meet people from all over the world. I mean, you meet them online, but you still interact and it's awesome. My last year's team consisted of three of my closest friends and a bunch of "vikings" (self-identified) from Norway. This year it runs from July 30 to Aug 6, and registration is now open. Go to the website and see all about it. https://www.gishwhes.com/
> 
> It's loads of fun, very silly, and if you can't afford the modest entry fee, it is possible to qualify for subsidies called Gisholarships. 
> 
> If you've ever seen him live or followed him on Twitter, you know Misha Collins is crazy. Imagine that joined with a scavenger hunt where you build strange things (a life-size dog made of feminine hygiene products last year), create strange scenarios (I armed my dog for battle with the cats -- awkward when one of the cats started sniffing the battle axe and my dog gave me this anxious look), and basically do a good turn for the world while having good, silly fun. William Shatner plays! So should you! (That's not peer pressure unless you're a) a celebrity or b) in your 80s.)

* * *

Dean shouldered his pack with its contents of schoolbooks and finished homework and looked down at Sammy doing the same thing. "We've got angels and demons and whacked out weirdos after us, but we still have to go to school," he said.

"Whacked out weirdos?" Sammy asked, knitting his brows.

"That guy who tried to kill you behind the motel on the way here."

"Right," Sammy said, eyes widening. "I'd forgotten about him."

Dean shuddered. "I couldn't. That was freaky."

"Well, school is at least something to do."

Dean shrugged. "And it's a good way to meet girls." Sammy rolled his eyes and they headed out the door. Someone was waiting for them at the fork, but it wasn't Trish. Dean was relieved to see Jeremy standing there.

"Did you have fun at your grandma's?" Sammy asked.

"Do you have fun when you visit your grandparents?" Jeremy asked deprecatingly.

Sam shrugged. "Don't have any."

Jeremy's eyes went wide. "I'm sorry. Did they die?"

"Before I was born." He glanced over at Dean. "Before Dean was born, even," he added, and Dean shifted awkwardly. It wasn't precisely a lie, but it implied things that weren't true. "Don't stress," Sammy said as they started walking on towards the bus. "I just don't have any clue about grandparents."

Dean sort of did. Angela's parents had shown up every year on the day after Christmas, and they'd acted sort of like he thought grandparents were supposed to act. "So, I guess you didn't have fun," Dean said.

"Not so much, but that was partly because of Trish." He looked up at Dean. "Boy, is she pissed at you."

Dean shrugged. "She'll get over it. She's got three boys running at her beck and call." He snorted. "What does she need me for?"

Jeremy grimaced. "Who knows, but she would not stop talking about you all weekend. Dad finally told her to shut up, and Mom is talking about making me stay away from Sam since you were so mean to her baby."

"What?" Dean exclaimed, horrified by the thought that he might be ruining Sam's friendship with Jeremy. "Maybe I should apologize. I –"

Jeremy stopped and turned on him. "Don't you dare!" he snapped. "That was the coolest moment of my life, watching a guy turn her down flat. Besides, my dad doesn't agree with my mom. He says that it will be good for her, and he won't let her forbid me to hang out with you guys."

"Your dad says it will be good for her?"

Jeremy nodded and started walking again. "Yeah, he says it will be a growth experience."

Sammy laughed, and Dean groaned. "Great, that makes me sound like some kind of fungus."

Jeremy snorted. "That's better than most of the stuff she called you this weekend," he said.

"Like what?" Dean asked.

"I'm not allowed to repeat most of it," Jeremy replied. "And my dad will totally know, so I'm not going there."

Dean shrugged. "It doesn't matter. I'm done, she'll just have to deal." They reached the road and saw Trish holding her backpack in both hands. She glanced back over her shoulder, and if looks could have killed, he'd have been bleeding among the leaves. She then turned her back on him and Dean gave Sammy a sidelong grin. He could handle a teenaged drama queen being pissed at him. He could not handle having her demand every moment of every day.

He found the day unexpectedly amusing. Every girl on campus seemed to have heard about his public rejection of Trish on Friday, and every one of them seemed pleased by it. He'd always had female friends, typically more than male friends, but he'd never been quite this popular before.

He heard rumblings of what Trish was trying to tell people to make trouble for him, but so far at least it seemed to be having limited effect. Her three boy toys and a couple of other guys had started glaring at him, but apart from that, things were totally fine. Meanwhile, he spent most of the day keeping an eye out for angels. He knew two, but what he didn't know was if that was how those guys always looked. Zachariah had said something about John hurting the body of the man he was inhabiting, which sort of implied possession, but did angels possess people the same way demons did? He hoped not, because that was pretty creepy.

Dean joined Sammy and Jeremy for lunch. He cleared his throat. "So, Sammy, another question for that story you're writing. Sammy blinked at him, then nodded slowly. "Do angels possess people? Or do they visit in their own bodies?" Wide-eyed, Sam pulled out his notebook and started writing.

"You're writing a story?" Jeremy asked. "With angels?" His tone made that sound very silly and juvenile.

"Not syrupy cherubs," Dean said in Sam's defense. "Hellfire and damnation angels, who aren't all on the same side."

Jeremy's brows went up. "Angels fighting angels?" he asked.

"And demons," Sam said. "And people caught in the middle." He put the pad away and tucked the pen in his pocket. "Kind of sucks for the people."

Dean rolled his eyes in agreement. Tiffany walked by smiling, and Dean turned to follow her with his eyes. She glanced back with a wink. "I'll see you later, Sammy," Dean said with a grin. He rose and caught up with her. "How goes?" he asked.

"It goes well. That cabriolet, does Bobby own it or does Smitty?"

Dean blinked. Smitty owned the dealership Bobby sometimes fixed cars for. "I think it's Smitty, why?"

"Sarah was thinking about buying it, and I wanted to direct her to the right person." Tiffany led him over to a table with a crowd sitting around it, guys and girls both, and Dean sat down a little nervously, not sure how he'd be received. It was one thing to have impressed half the school by humbling the biggest bitch there, hanging out was entirely different, and usually guys didn't much like him.

He sat down, prepared to be quiet, but they included him in their joshing and he quickly felt like he almost belonged. He'd never felt that way at school before, and he found it kind of cool. When Megan joined the group and grinned at him, it just made things that much better.

* * *

Sam looked around the cafeteria. As always, there were definite groups. He and Jeremy were one of several pairings of kids, and there were a couple of small clusters, but there were three primary groups that he'd observed thus far. There were the jocks and cheerleaders, duh. Every high school had that clique. There were the intellectual elite, into which Sam and Jeremy might have fit, but in Ithaca that group was small and made up of local snobs, and both Jeremy and Sam were outsiders in the school. And there was another big group, into which Dean had just successfully penetrated. He couldn't make heads or tails of them.

Marshal and Joey came over with their food and settle down. "You're looking mighty thoughtful, Sammy," Marshal said, peering at the inside of his hamburger as if not altogether certain what the meat was.

"Sam," he corrected automatically. One of these days he'd convert the world.

"I've heard your cousin call you Sammy," Joey said.

"He's my cousin."

"I see," Marshal said, nodding sagely. "Whatever. What are you staring at?"

"Just wondering about that group of kids over there," he said, gesturing towards where Tiffany and Dean were sitting. "They don't seem to fit any of the cliché social groupings."

Joey laughed. "It's good thing you're good with your fists, boyo, or you'd get beaten up daily, talking like that. Cliché social groupings, my ass."

"Seriously. You've got your jocks." He pointed to a guy chugging a soda as fast as he could to the cheers of his fellows. "You've got your snobby nerds." He pointed to the Ivy League club in the corner.

"Don't let them hear you call them that," Marshal warned.

"Why, what'll they do?" Sam asked.

"Talk you to death," Marshal replied.

Joey smacked Marshal, and Jeremy started laughing. " _They'll_ talk _him_ to death?" he said sarcastically. "They might understand everything he says, unlike us mere mortals, but they wouldn't be able to compete."

"The debate team?" Jeremy asked.

"I'd bet on Sam here against our debate weenies any day," Joey said. "State championship or not."

"Can a freshman join the team?" Sam asked, even though he doubted they'd be around long enough for him to even try.

"You have to try out," Marshal said. "And I think they're full up, so you'd have to oust one of the guys who's already there."

Sam glanced over and contemplated the thought, then shook his head. Pipe dreams were best not encouraged. "Okay, so, that's jocks and nerds. We've got the outcasts." Sam gestured to include the smaller groupings, including themselves. "But what about those guys?"

"You're missing a group," Joey said, and Sam raised his eyebrows. "The band geeks. They don't come in here, mostly. They eat lunch in the band room."

"Okay, whatever. What about them?" He gestured with his chin at the group Dean had joined again.

"I don't know that they have a cliché name," Marshal said, making fun of the word by exaggerating it. "There's a couple of the auto shop guys –"

"And girl," Joey put in. "Can't ignore my sister or she'll beat you up."

"Right. The auto shop _people_ ," Marshal said. "Most of the drama geeks are over there, and a couple of the brains who think snobby nerds are boring."

"Why aren't you over there, then, Marshal?" Sam asked.

"Because I'm a drama professional, not a drama geek," Marshal said loftily.

"And he hasn't wanted to hang out with them since him and Tanya broke up last month," Joey said, and Marshal smacked him.

"I think of them as the cool people," Jeremy said. "Not the people who think they're cool, but the people who are actually cool. Which is why Dean's over there and we're not."

Sam shrugged agreement with this assessment, and glanced around the room. He caught Trish looking over at Dean, and he shivered slightly at the smoldering rage that showed in her eyes. He followed her gaze to Dean, who had his arm around Tiffany and was laughing. It was weird. Demons and angels and wackos, and high school bimbos with no sense of proportion. Danger came in all sorts of packages. He shrugged and turned away. He didn't really think Trish posed much of a threat, not when lined up next to Azazel or Zachariah, anyway.

* * *

Dean was surprised that no one wanted him to work with Missouri on Monday night. He didn't object, but he hadn't expected it. At dinner that night, he looked at her closely and realized that she was looking very tired. After dinner, Sammy went downstairs to work on his homework kind of automatically, since most nights that was Dean's time to work with Missouri. John and Bobby went into the library, and Missouri went back upstairs.

Dean followed her and before she'd quite closed her door, he said, "Missouri?"

She stopped and turned around, smiling. He could tell she meant it, but she still looked bone weary. "Yes, Dean?" she asked.

"You look awful," Dean said. Her eyes widened, and he realized badly how what he'd said could be taken. "I mean, you look really tired. Really tired. I mean, I know I'm not supposed to worry about you and all, but . . . are you okay?"

Her smile grew broader, and her eyes warmed. "This isn't the same kind of worry, Dean," she said. "I am tired, but I'm okay. I'm just not used to spending this much time in constant contact with the same people. I live alone, in a shielded house, and my personal shields are taking a bit of a beating."

Dean blinked at her. "What's that mean? Personal shields?"

Missouri gestured towards the TV room, and they went to sit down. "It's like ear plugs or sunglasses," she said. "Only for my mind."

Dean considered this. "So it's not just up or down?" he asked curiously.

"It's like anything," she replied. "Your arms are strong, but if you worked out a lot, they might get stronger, if you stopped using them, they'd get weaker. It's just the mind instead of the body."

"But the shields on your house, are those different?" She nodded. "Can you shield the room you're staying in here?"

"Not as effectively," she said. "But yes, I have. That's why I've been spending so much time up here."

Dean grimaced. He'd been getting a lot out of the time he'd been spending working with her, despite the occasional discomfort, but he didn't want that to be at any cost to her well being. "Maybe it's time for you to be going home," he said.

"Soon," she replied, and he felt a brief stab of dismay that he quickly covered. Not quickly enough to fool a psychic, though. "You'll be fine, Dean," she said reassuringly, reaching out to pat the sofa next to him. Neither of them would be comfortable if she touched him. She smiled at him. "You're already feeling better, aren't you?"

He nodded. "You've helped a lot."

"I'm glad," she said. "Good night, Dean."

He watched her get up and leave, then leaned back on the sofa, thinking about everything that had been happening. He hadn't known any of these people for very long, yet this was the most loved he'd ever felt in his life – at least during the part of his life he remembered. Even so, he still hadn't found his family. But John and Missouri – and possibly Bobby, too – they knew who his family was. They were just afraid to tell him for fear that it would screw him up somehow, because of the spells.

He got up and went downstairs to the library. From the way they both covered stuff up, he knew they had to be looking at the glyphs again. "John?"

"Yes, Dean?"

"You said you know who my family is," he said. John nodded, a guarded, anxious look entering his eyes. "Do they know where I am?"

John's expression changed from worry to relief. "They do, Dean. They know where you are and that you're okay."

"I'm not okay," Dean said, grimacing.

"They know where you are and that you're safe," John said. "Don't worry."

"But . . ." Dean bit his lip. This was going to sound goofy and immature, but he still had to ask the question. "Don't they want to see me?"

John rose and crossed the room swiftly, putting his hands on Dean's shoulders. "Of course they do, Dean. Just trust me that you will understand everything when we're able to tell you safely."

"I trust you, John," Dean said. He sighed. "And geometry is calling. I'd better go make sure Sammy gets some fun in while he does homework." Grabbing his backpack, he paused in the library doorway and said, "A brother's work is never done."

He headed downstairs where he found Sammy elbows deep in some kind of an essay. Fun was a good thing, but getting Sammy mad at him for interrupting the flow would not make anyone happy. He settled down on the bed and started working his way through obtuse and acute angles. His mind wouldn't stick to it, though. He kept wandering off on tangents.

John knew who his parents were, and Missouri knew him when he was little. He kept steering himself firmly back on track, but pi and Pythagoras couldn't keep his attention. He was eighteen, or thereabouts. Sometime this month he would turn eighteen. The chance that his birthday was actually the first was pretty slim. But whatever the specific day, he was born in 1979.

He looked at the book, pushing himself to do the work in front of him. Where a and b are the lengths of the sides of a right triangle, and c is the length of the third side, a2 + b2 = c2.

Who cared? If Missouri had known him when he was four, then he had to have been somewhere she could have met him in 1983. He looked up. "Do you know, Sammy, does Missouri travel much?"

Sammy looked up and shook his head. "Not so far as I know. I think Dad was kind of surprised that she agreed to come out this time."

Dean looked back down at the book again, and his eyes fell on a word he'd heard repeatedly, but still thought both sounded and looked weird. Hypotenuse. So, had he been in Lawrence, Kansas when he was four? "Your dad said he knows who my family is. Do you?"

Sammy's eyes were wide. "Yeah, I . . . I do."

"Do you know them?"

Sammy nodded. "I'm not sure we're supposed to be talking about this," he said.

"Just one question, and then I'll shut up."

Sammy shrugged. "Okay," he said, but he seemed pretty anxious.

"Is my family from Lawrence?

Moistening his lips, Sammy nodded. "Yeah, they are."

Dean nodded, then looked back down at his book. The first problem was an equilateral triangle where a = 6 and c = 10. Dean blinked at it, well aware that the answer was as easy as pie, but he couldn't concentrate. Lawrence, Kansas. He'd looked it up in an atlas during one of his lunchtime visits to the library. It was a decent sized city, but how many Deans could have been born there in 1979? "When's your brother's birthday?"

"Dean, why are you asking that?"

"Curiosity," Dean said. "Come on, Sammy."

"January 24th," Sammy said. "Dean, what are you thinking about?"

How many Deans could have been born there in 1979 – in January? He looked down at the problems on the page, but all he could think was that it wasn't possible. Sammy said his brother disappeared when he was eight, and that had to be 1990, because Sammy was . . . fourteen. But he wasn't fourteen, he was thirteen, so he was eight in 1991. The year Dean had turned up in Georgia with no memories except that he had a father who would be looking for him.

He'd never really thought about his mother, always his father. He talked about his parents, but he thought most about finding his father. A memory rose up out of nowhere and struck him full force. He'd had a flashback to it while they were still in Fort William, but now the whole sentence came through to him. _"Don't you want them to heal, Dean?"_ he'd said. " _If they don't, you'll bleed to death, and then who will protect your little brother from me?"_

Dean looked up. Sammy. Azazel wanted Sammy for something. He didn't know why or what, but he knew it. And with that knowledge came the realization that he'd known the truth for several days, unacknowledged. John wasn't looking for his family because John was his father. Sammy was his brother. His mother was Mary Winchester, the woman who had died on that ceiling.

Abruptly his head and his torso exploded in pain. His back arched, and he rose to his feet without really knowing why. Letting out a cry of agony, he fell to the floor, writhing, knowing nothing but mind-bending pain.


	28. Chapter 28

Sam looked up, stunned, when Dean jumped, screaming, to his feet, then collapsed.  He flung himself at his brother and grabbed for him, trying to calm him down.  Dean hurled him off, and Sam crashed backwards into the wall as Dean surged to his feet.  Dean made for the door, but there was a table in the way.  He slammed into it and started to go down again.  Heavy footsteps on the stairs told Sam that his father and Bobby had heard the commotion.  He struggled back to his feet and rushed to his brother’s side.

“Dean!” he exclaimed, trying to bring him out of his blind panic.  “Dean?”  Dean shoved him away again, on his feet and heading towards the door.

Sam heard their father calling just outside the panic room door, but before Sam could respond, Castiel was there, between him and Dean, facing Sam.  “Where is he?” he demanded, eyes intent on Sam’s face, but at that moment, Dean’s flailing hand caught the angel a blow to the back of the head.  Castiel whirled, and, raising his hand, he touched Dean gently between the eyes.  Dean collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut.  Castiel caught him and lowered him to the floor.

A moment later Dad came in and seized Castiel by the collar.  He jerked the angel off Dean and yanked him around.  “What have you done to my son?” he demanded.  Sam fell to his knees beside Dean, rolling him over and checking him out.

“He is asleep,” Castiel said in an imperturbable tone.

“Everything seems normal,” Sam said.  His voice made an embarrassing squeak.

“What happened, Sammy?” Dad asked, not releasing his hold on Castiel.

“Dean started asking questions about his family, like whether they were from Lawrence, and then he asked what my brother’s birthday was, and then a minute or two later, he jumped up, screamed and started freaking out.”  Bobby came and squatted down next to Dean, checking out the same things Sam had and pulling his eyes open to see the pupils.

“I sensed demonic magic within the building,” Castiel said, and Sam looked up at him anxiously.

Bobby’s head swiveled upwards.  “No demon could get into this room,” he growled.

“I am aware,” Castiel said.  “But Azazel left his mark on Dean, and as such, he carried it with him into the room.”

“Sam, go upstairs,” Dad said sharply.

“But Dad, Dean –”

“Bobby and I are here,” Dad replied.  “Go upstairs.  Missouri may have heard or sensed some of that, and she’ll need to know what happened.”

“Dad, I –”

His father turned his face away from Castiel to glare at Sam.  “Go,” he ordered.

Mutinous and angry, Sam rose and left the room.

* * *

John turned his attention to the so-called angel who had just knocked his son out.  “What do you mean, demonic magic?”  Castiel looked at John’s hands on his garments meaningfully, and John shook him.  “What do you mean?”

“I do not altogether know,” Castiel said.  “I sensed the movement of forces, and I came in.”  He turned to look at Bobby, then faced John again.  “I do not know all of what has happened to him, John.  I am not omniscient.”

John shoved him away and then bent to check on Dean.  He nodded at Bobby, who took the cue to rise.  “He has glyphs carved into his body, did you know that?”

“I knew there were spells, but I did not know precisely the form they took,” Castiel said.

“Can you remove them?” Bobby asked, and John glared up at him.  Then he looked over at Castiel, feeling schizophrenic.  He didn’t want that creature anywhere near his son, but if the angel could remove the glyphs from Dean’s body, how could John argue with that?

“May I see them?” Castiel asked.  John looked uncertainly down at Dean.  “He will not awaken until I will it, or until I go.”

John ground his teeth.  “Can you do something about them?”

“There are limits to what I can do without drawing unwanted attention upon myself,” Castiel replied. “If it is not necessary, I do not think either of us would want to risk bringing down the attention of either Azazel or the other angelic factions.”

John noted the plural of the word factions and filed it away for later consideration.  “So then what’s the point?”

“I do not wish to if it is not necessary,” Castiel said.  “I will not know if it is necessary unless I can see the glyphs.”

John glanced at Bobby, who shrugged.  He scooped Dean up and both Bobby and Castiel got out of his way as he walked over to the bed.  He put his son down gently, then sat next to him, taking his hand and thinking about the options he had at the moment.  They were slim and not to his liking.  He didn’t know why Dean had panicked, though he had a shrewd guess that it had something to do with his memories.  Those questions . . . clearly he’d started putting two and two together.  It looked as if they’d been right to keep him in the dark.

John took a deep breath and closed his eyes.  He had a resource at his side – it was one he didn’t altogether trust, but it was a resource.  He gazed for a moment down at Dean’s face.  “You can let him wake up?” John asked, and then he looked up at the angel.  Castiel nodded.  John swallowed uneasily.  “Can you then put him back to sleep without hurting him?”

“Of course,” Castiel said.

John could see Bobby behind Castiel.  From his expression, it looked like he was following John’s thinking.  John raised his eyebrows.  Bobby glanced at Dean’s face, grimaced, then nodded.  John cleared his throat.  “We need to know what just happened, why he freaked out, and he’s the only one who can possibly tell us,” John said, meeting Castiel’s eyes.  “And I’d rather not go showing you anything without his permission.”

Castiel nodded.  “So you wish me to allow him to awaken so that we can speak to him, but if he cannot be controlled, I am to put him to sleep again.”

“So long as it won’t do him any damage,” John said, hoping the angel could see just how serious he was.

“It will not harm him,” Castiel said.  “All it requires is a touch.”

John looked down at his son and glanced over at Bobby, who had moved to stand at the foot of the bed.  “Do it,” John said.

Castiel didn’t move from where he stood behind John, but Dean stirred.  He started to whimper, and then to struggle as if he was being held down.  The whimper began to escalate into a scream.

“Dean?” John said, leaning forward, putting a hand on his son’s arm.  “Can you hear me?”

A scream erupted from Dean’s throat, and he shoved hard at John, knocking him off balance.  The boy scrambled to the edge of the bed and started to get off.  John caught himself and pressed Dean back onto the bed.  “Dean, it’s okay.  You’re with friends.”

“He cannot hear you,” Castiel said, and John looked up at him, startled to see the dismay and anguish nakedly visible in the angel’s face.

“Stop it,” John said, gulping, and Castiel leaned down and touched him between the eyebrows.  Dean relaxed bonelessly again, now curled in a semi-fetal position next to John’s hip, lying on his left side.  John took a long, shuddering breath, and then he bent to cup his son’s face.  There were tears on his cheeks, though John hadn’t noticed him crying.  Leaning so close, he could tell that Dean was still in pain, despite the fact that he was sleeping.  He touched his forehead to Dean’s, then sat up briskly.  Pulling Dean’s topmost shirt up, he untucked the undershirt and began to raise it as well.

“I’m not sure how Dean’s going to react to this, John,” Bobby said in an undertone.

“Can you stop it?” John asked without pausing.

Bobby blinked and shook his head.  “Not immediately, at any rate.”

“I may not be able to, either,” Castiel said.  “But I will try.”

“And you need to see the damned glyphs before you can know, right?”

Castiel nodded.  John found the deeply disturbed expression the angel wore alarming, but also strangely reassuring.  He’d thus far seemed to be carved of stone, so it was good to see that he had some kind of reaction to seeing Dean suffer like this.  He finally bared the skin of Dean’s right side, and Castiel’s jaw tightened.

“What is it?” Bobby asked.

“It blocks his memories,” Castiel said, gazing intently at the marks.  “I do not know its full purpose because it appears to be incomplete, but at this time it is blocking his memories of his past, and it is also the cause of the panic he is suffering.”  He leaned closer.  “He is locked in a loop of pain and panic that he cannot escape from.  Even now he feels it, though he will not remember.”

John found himself in the unusual situation of being speechless, looking at the images engraved into his son’s skin and knowing that these marks were what had kept Dean from remembering himself and seeking help for so many years.

Bobby cleared his throat.  “So, is it necessary, do you think?” he asked acerbically.

“It is necessary to disrupt the influence of the spell,” Castiel said.  “He cannot function as he is now.”

“Yah think?” Bobby growled.

“But to remove the whole of the glyph would take more power than I have ready access to at this time, and would bring the attention of every demon and angel in the world to this spot.”

“What can you do?” John asked, his voice breaking.  He looked up.  “Please tell me that there’s something you can do.”

Castiel appeared to study Dean’s side for a moment, then he leaned forward, placing one finger on a scarred line of the glyph.  There was a moment of tension in the air, then Castiel stepped back.  John leaned forward and saw a fingertip-sized section of clean, healthy skin breaking one of the lines of the glyph.  A tension that John hadn’t even been aware of faded from Dean’s body, and John leaned close.  The pain appeared to be gone.  A moment later, he heard the sound of wings, and Dean shifted, then opened his eyes.

He looked up, his gaze falling on John’s face.  “Dad?” he said, and, while his voice was hoarse from the screaming, it was also full of awe.  “Dad!  I remember you.”

* * *

Sam clutched the mug in his hands, his hands shaking.  Having Dean flip out like that on him made his stomach twist up and hurt, and no one would let him help.  Missouri cupped his head in her hands and kissed the top of it.  “He’s fine, Sammy, I can tell,” she said.

“Sam,” he said, and his voice felt hard and spiky in his throat.  “Is Castiel still here?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart,” she said, dropping her hands to his shoulders.  “I sense that he has been here, but without going downstairs I wouldn’t be able to tell if he’s left or not.”

“He’s gone,” Bobby said, startling both of them.

Sam shoved away from the table, spilling his hot chocolate, and he rushed over to Bobby.  “Is Dean okay?”

“Dean is fine, now,” Bobby said in a gentle voice.  “Castiel took care of it.”

“But I thought he was gone,” Sam said, shaking his head.  “What happened?”

“I can’t give you all the details, Sammy, but one of the spells has been disabled,” Bobby said.  Sam’s eyes widened.  “He remembers your father, now.”

Sam’s breath caught in his throat.  “Does he remember me?”

Bobby pulled him into a hug.  “I didn’t ask, but he’s okay.  He’s not freaking out anymore.”

Sam looked up at Bobby.  “Can I go back down?”

Bobby glanced at Missouri, then nodded.  “Let’s both go,” he said.  Sam wanted to go down there, but he was nervous.  Bobby put an arm around his shoulders and guided him to the stairs.  Sam stopped for a moment at the top of the steps, then took off running.  He reached the door to the panic room and found Dean looking up.

Dean grinned.  “Sammy!” he said, and Sammy ran across to slam into him


	29. Chapter 29

Bobby watched the reunion from the door to the panic room, his arms crossed as he leaned against the doorway from the outside. Kind of odd to call it a reunion, they'd been living together for three weeks, but for Dean to suddenly remember who he was and who they were made a big difference to them all. He went back upstairs to find Missouri rolling out pie dough on the counter.

"What's this?" he asked.

"Comfort food," she said. "I have a feeling we're going to need it from all the emotions that have been boiling around up here and down there."

"Missouri, they're happy," Bobby protested.

"And good emotion can be as wearing and traumatic as unpleasant emotion can." She shook her head. "It'll be done in a little over an hour."

They puttered around for a while, Missouri baking while Bobby went back to work in the library. He opened one of his books and then paused, his mind recalling something that he'd just sort of sailed past during the crisis. What had Castiel meant when he said that the glyph was incomplete? Bobby pulled out the photograph of the glyph on Dean's right side. There was nothing visible to indicate a lack of completion. On the other hand, it and the damaged one on Dean's left were the only one that didn't seem to have invisible extra additions. He'd assumed before that the reason for that had to do with the glyphs themselves, but they knew now, from some of the work Dean had done with Missouri, that several of the glyphs had taken more than one session of cutting. Perhaps he'd needed specific components for the remainder of the glyph on Dean's right, or maybe he'd moved on to the left because he'd realized the potential drawback of the demon protection glyph on Dean's back and was in a hurry to resolve the potential issue. Or maybe the spell required a specific time of year, or that the remainder of the glyph be fully healed before additions were made. While not endless, the possibilities were many and varied, and Bobby knew he couldn't think of them all.

Whatever the reason for it was, Castiel said the glyph wasn't complete, and that was important in Bobby's quest to identify it. He started searching, and he didn't come up for air until he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, Uncle Bobby," Dean said with a half-smile. "When'd you get rid of the dump truck?"

Bobby blinked at him, astonished. "I sold it in '93, I think," Bobby said, suddenly remembering Dean and Sam climbing all over a dilapidated dump truck on their last visit before the abduction. "You remember that?"

Dean shrugged. "I'm sorry I called you a perv and a drunk truck driver," he said.

Bobby stood up and caught Dean in a rough hug. "You think I cared?" he replied gruffly. "Hell, kid, you could have called me a lot worse and I would have been just as glad to see you."

Before the moment could get any more maudlin than it already was, Missouri let out a yell. "Fresh apple pie!"

Bobby gave Dean a quick squeeze then followed him into the kitchen. John looked like he'd been crying for the past hour, but that was no shock. Sammy's eyes were red, too, and so were Dean's.

Bobby went and grabbed a tub of vanilla ice cream out of the freezer. They sat down around the kitchen table, eating hot apple pie à la mode. Dean was telling a story about his freshman year of high school when Sam broke in. "Wait, what are we going to tell everyone at school? They think we're cousins."

"How many stories have you made up, squirt?" Dean asked.

Sam shrugged. "Not a lot. I just told people your parents died in a car crash."

"We're not telling anybody anything until after the 24th," John announced. "I do not want the state of Georgia noticing that they let an underage kid out of their foster care program until that kid is no longer under age."

Dean's eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. "I'm not eighteen!" he exclaimed. "Son of a . . . gun." Bobby saw the slight glance at Sam before Dean edited his language and was amused. As if Sam didn't use those words often enough himself.

"Why do you think I didn't get you much of a present?" John said. "I was saving it for your real birthday, hoping to be able to give it to you."

Dean turned to him, his eyes a little puzzled. "So far as I knew, we were strangers. I was surprised that Sammy even baked me a cake."

"I didn't know yet, then, either," Sam said.

Bobby tilted his head. "Oh, so you've already had a birthday cake this year?" Dean nodded, brows knit. "Too bad. I figured on getting an ice cream cake, but I guess you won't need one now."

"He's got five whole birthdays to catch up on," Sam said. "I think we can have another cake."

Dean tilted his head. "Does that mean I get five whole years' worth of birthday presents?"

John rolled his eyes and didn't answer. Sam laughed and said, "Dad doesn't usually give much in the way of birthday presents, Dean, or don't you remember?"

Bobby glanced over at John, wondering how the man would react to that statement. John's expression was sober and dismayed. He glanced at his watch and said, "It's time for you boys to be going to bed."

Sam looked rebellious right up until Dean sighed tiredly and said, "Sounds good to me, old man." He stood up. "Come on, Sammy. I don't think we're getting out of going to school tomorrow, and I know you don't want to fall asleep in Mrs. Parsons' class."

"Mrs. Parsons?" John asked.

"She teaches English," Sam said. "Dad, how long are we staying here?"

"A while," John said, his brows knitting. "Why do you want to know?"

Sam shrugged. "I was thinking about going out for the debate team, but if we're leaving before the end of the school year, there's no point."

John opened his mouth, then closed it. "Do you have to know tomorrow?" he asked. Sam shook his head. "Give me a day or two to think about it, okay, tiger?"

Sam blinked at him. "Sure."

The boys gave them each a hug, and Bobby was surprised to see Dean hug Missouri. So far he'd avoided all contact with her that wasn't related to their work on his history. Then he grabbed Sam by the back of the neck and guided him out of the room. "Hey, Sammy, do you remember when I stole you a Barbie?" he asked, and Bobby met John's eyes with a startled expression. John just shook his head and shrugged.

Missouri started to pick up the dishes, but Bobby put a hand out to forestall her. "I got it, Missouri," he said. "Go get some rest."

She smiled wearily at him. "Thanks, Bobby. Good night, John."

When they were alone, Bobby turned to John. "So, what are your plans?"

"Plans?" John asked.

"The ones that you need a day or two to think about?" Bobby prompted.

John opened his mouth, then shut it again. "You know how you weren't sure you wanted me to take Sam out with me back in '94?"

Bobby nodded slowly. "Yeah," he said, wondering where this was going.

"I was thinking it might be good for both of them to have a little more consistency," John said, and Bobby raised his eyebrows. "I've got to find this demon, Bobby, but I'm not sure I want to take Dean with me on that hunt."

Bobby's eyes widened. "Hell no, you don't want to take Dean with you."

"So, is it okay with you?"

Bobby shrugged. "I was going to suggest it if you started talking about taking them out with you again, but I hadn't thought about the demon aspect of things."

John stood up and started clearing the dishes. "Have you got any lore on a demon named Azazel?" he asked.

"Sure, John. Tons. Unfortunately, I'm not sure that the fact the ancient Hebrews used to present a goat to God and then release it into the wilderness 'for Azazel' tells us much."

John grimaced. "Not a lot," he said. "Damn it, who is this bastard, and what does he want with my boys?"

"Boys?" Bobby repeated. "Plural? Don't you mean Dean?"

"He killed Mary in Sam's nursery, Bobby," John pointed out. "I can't believe that's a coincidence. He was there for a reason."

"But he took Dean."

"I'm aware of that," John said in a brittle voice. "But I can't believe that he was in Sam's room for no reason." He put the dishes in the dishwasher with unnecessary force. "How much have I told you about that night?"

"Everything, I thought," Bobby said, knitting his brows. "What do you mean?"

"I was in the living room, I'd fallen asleep in front of the TV," he said.

Bobby nodded. "Yeah, you told me that."

"And I woke up when I heard Mary on the stairs, calling Sammy's name." He shook his head, turning around to lean against the countertop. "The demon wasn't there for Mary, Bobby. He was there for Sammy."

Bobby sat back, stunned by the implications. He hadn't really put it together like that before. No wonder John was so damned paranoid about his boys. "Why your family?" he asked, and John shook his head, his jaw clenched, looking down at the floor. "Or _is_ it only your family?"

John looked up. "What do you mean?"

"Well, we know it was a demon because we know about these things. Is it possible that there's something bigger going on? I mean, one little family from Kansas exciting all this attention from demons and angels seems a little far out, but if there's a wider plan of some kind, maybe you're just a piece of it."

John seemed to consider this notion for a moment. "I'll have to give it some thought. But if the boys can stay for a while, I can look into it."

Bobby nodded. "They can stay as long as they need to, John, but they need you. Dean will need you to be around."

"I'm not leaving tomorrow," John said. "I'm not leaving until it's time to take Missouri home."

"But when you go, you're going to have to come back more often than you did when you left Sam here," Bobby said, reflecting that he should have come by more often then.

"I have to find that demon, Bobby," John said intently.

"Yes, you do, John, but your boys need to know where you are and that you're safe. Otherwise, they'll worry, and they might just come after you." He shrugged. "And Dean's had you back for less than a month."

John buried his face in his hands and was silent for a moment. When he looked up, his eyes were wet. "Things are different, now. I was looking for Dean, then, and I believed I had some chance of finding him. Now . . ." He shook his head. "Bobby, two angels are hovering around my son, and when things went haywire down there with Dean, Castiel got there before us because he sensed demonic magic. This is . . . I don't know what it is, but it has to stop. I refuse to allow my sons to become fodder for some argument between heaven and hell."

"Damn straight," Bobby said. "Now we've just got to find out how to stop them, cuz saying it don't make it so."

"And that's going to involve field work. One of us has to go out, and frankly, Bobby, I have more experience in the field."

Bobby nodded and stood up. "In the meantime, we need to get more research done. We've got to find out how powerful this Azazel is. We already know he's old if he shows up in Leviticus." John shuddered, and Bobby sympathized. "Get some sleep, John. We need to get our rest."

"That's going to happen," John muttered. "I'm going to go look in on the boys and then I'll go to bed."

Bobby went upstairs and tried to calm his mind for sleep, but the thought that heaven and hell had shown such intense interest in those boys from conception forward made it challenging. What could they know? They had to have a reason to focus so hard on two little boys, and Bobby wasn't sure how to find out what that reason was.

* * *

John trotted down the stairs and walked over to shake Dean's shoulder. "Rise and shine, sleepyhead," he called. "You don't want to miss the bus."

Dean blinked up at him blearily. "Dad!" He smiled, and it was like the sun coming up. John grinned down at him, feeling almost as thrilled as he had the first moment he'd recognized his son. Dean's brows knit. "The bus? Oh, school, right." He looked around. "Where's Sammy?"

"Showering." John tousled Dean's hair. "Breakfast will be ready in a couple of minutes." He turned to go, but when he reached the door, Dean spoke.

"Dad?"

John turned instantly. "Yes, son?"

Dean gave him a grin that was almost embarrassed. "Just trying to make it feel real."

John felt his eyes burning with emotion. "See you upstairs," he said, and he left so Dean could get dressed. When he'd gone down to check on them the night before, he'd found them in the midst of reminiscences and hadn't interrupted them despite the lateness of the hour. Nothing short of separating them could have stopped them, and he wasn't separating them, not for anything.

He saw them off, resisting the urge to summon them back and keep them home. Resisting an equally strong urge to walk with them to the bus. He stood in the doorway, watching them till they were out of sight. He sensed rather than saw Bobby come up behind him.

"They'll be fine, John," Bobby said.

"We need help."

"What do you mean, John?"

"Jim. Caleb. Ellen. Joshua. Daniel. Maybe even Rufus." He turned around to find Bobby staring at him with wide eyes. "I know, I don't typically ask for help, and I know all of those people have had issues with me in the past, but this is big. It's bigger than us. Angels and demons . . ." He shook his head helplessly. "I don't even know what that means."

"Jim's back home, but he's not mobile," Bobby said. "I could probably get Joshua and Daniel to come here. Rufus is unpredictable these days, but he knows everything, God knows how. And Ellen . . . a lot depends on whether or not she's got reliable help."

John nodded. "I was thinking I might drive out to see Jim today. It's a four or five hour drive, right? I might end up staying the night, but the boys would understand."

Bobby's eyes narrowed. "You're talking about leaving for a day without warning them in advance?" he demanded.

"It's important."

Bobby crossed his arms, straightening his shoulders. "All right, if you're going, you'll have to stop by the school and have those boys called out of class, and you'll tell them that you're going to see Jim and that you'll be back tomorrow. You will _not_ stick me with that job. Again."

John glowered at Bobby, but he knew it was a fair complaint. "Fine. Then will you call the others for me, ask them to come out here?"

"No," Bobby said, and John stopped on his way to the stairs. He turned around and looked at Bobby in surprise. "You have some asses to kiss, John, and I am not doing it for you."

"Neither Caleb nor Joshua is mad at me right now, and I stopped by Ellen's on the way to pick up Missouri."

"You did?" Bobby asked, blinking.

"Yeah." John shrugged. "What you said got me thinking, and I couldn't make myself drive past."

"Good," Bobby said, and John suppressed a surge of irritation at his sanctimonious attitude.

"So, please, could you give them a call?" Bobby still looked reluctant. "Seriously, Bobby, I also don't really want to explain anything over the phone, or I'd have told Jim already."

Bobby grimaced. "Fine, but you stop and talk to the boys – both of them – or I will shoot you when you get back."

"Right, right," John said. "I'll do it, I promise."

Bobby nodded, and he went into the library. John went upstairs, grabbed his go bag and headed out. He stopped by the school and the secretary gave him an anxious look when he asked her pull his son and his nephew out of class. She made the calls and then looked up at him. "Is something wrong, Mr. Winchester?"

"Nope." He gave her a nod, then went outside to wait for the boys. Dean got to the front of the school first, and he came towards John with a worried look. "Is something wrong?"

"No, I'm just going to leave town overnight," John said. "I'll be back tomorrow, but I have someone I need to talk to."

"Who?" Dean asked.

"Pastor Jim," John said, abruptly remembering that Dean knew him now. "I'd get him to come here, but he was hurt during his last hunt, so I'm going to have to go to him."

"Go to who?" Sam asked, walking up. "What's going on?"

"I'm going to go see Pastor Jim," John said. "I'll be back tomorrow."

"Why?"

"I need to tell him about Dean, for one thing," John said.

"Why not wait till the weekend and we can all go."

John shook his head. "Until we've come up with some better protections, I want you boys staying with Bobby."

"I think that's best," Dean said, and both of them turned towards him in surprise. "Not that I don't want to see Pastor Jim, but . . . I think you're right."

"So, I just wanted to let you guys know that I'll be gone when you get home tonight."

"You never have before," Sam said, and John grimaced.

"Bobby threatened to shoot me if I left without telling you again."

Sam blinked. "Oh."

Dean cleared his throat. "Hey, Sammy, why don't you go on back to class," he said. "I've got something I want to tell . . . Uncle John." Sam scowled and started to speak, but Dean gave him a look that silenced him. John wondered how long Dean would be able to quell his little brother with a look. He doubted it would be all that much longer.

"You'll be back tomorrow?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, tiger." He ruffled Sam's hair and Sam glowered at him before sloping back off into the campus.

Dean waited a moment, peering after Sam, and then turned back to John. "Azazel told me Sammy was important, but he didn't tell me why," he said, and John's mouth went dry. "I was going to tell you when I got home tonight. Last night things got a little crazy, so I forgot to say anything."

"He said that Sammy was important?" John asked, eyes widening.

Dean nodded, looking at least as disturbed as John felt. "He also told me he killed my mother, but you already know that from Missouri."

John put his hands on Dean's shoulders. "It's going to be okay, Dean. One of the reasons I'm going to talk to Pastor Jim is to get his help in figuring out our next move."

Dean shrugged. "Nothing much seems to be penetrating past the sheer coolness of you being my dad and Sammy being my brother," he said in a quiet voice. "Go. Say hi to Pastor Jim for me." Dean walked off towards the school, and John watched him go for a moment.

Finally John tore himself away and went back to the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of comments I've received have made feel I should say that there are still 7 chapters after this one. We are on the final leg towards the end, but there's still quite a bit to go.
> 
> Remember, comments are love, and don't we all need love? :) Thank you all for reading, it means a lot to me.


	30. Chapter 30

The drive was long and boring. John turned on the music, and he reflected that a CD player might be a good idea. Too many long stretches of the road had no radio coverage. He pulled up outside Jim's place, out behind the church he led. Locking the car, John walked up to the door and knocked. A young woman answered. "Can I help you?" she asked.

"Jim here?"

"Reverend Murphy is indisposed," the girl said, and she started to close the door.

John stepped forward. "I'm John Winchester, and Jim's expecting me."

"Margie? Is that John?"

The girl glowered at John and stepped back. "You don't tire him out, you hear me?"

John gave her a dubious look as he passed and headed back to Jim's study where he figured Jim would be. There he sat behind the desk in a wheelchair, and he looked up. "So what's up, John? Bobby said you'd be coming by, but he didn't say why."

"Who's the girl?"

"Margie Packer," Jim said with a scowl. "My doctor is a parishioner, and he declared I needed help. The deacons have a tag team of daughters looking after me." John started to ask if there was some way Jim could get rid of her, but before he could say anything, Jim raised his voice. "Margie?"

She came in, a dishcloth in her hands. "Yes, Reverend?"

"Can you go pick up my mail? The PO box is number 1038." He held out a key. "I'd really appreciate it."

"Of course, Reverend." She took the key and gave John a warning look. "Do you need anything else?"

"No, I'm good, Margie." She left and a few minutes later, John heard the front door close. He took a deep breath and looked at his hands. "Where's Sam?" Jim asked. "I was looking forward to seeing him. You haven't brought him by since last August." John looked up and opened his mouth to speak, but Jim's eyes widened. "My God, John, nothing's happened to Sam, has it?"

"God, no!" John exclaimed. "Jim, we found Dean."

Jim's jaw went slack. "Dean? You found Dean?"

John laughed. "Actually, Sam found Dean."

"He's alive?" Jim demanded, sounding astonished. "Where was he?"

"Georgia, if you can believe it," John said. "He's been in foster care since the May after he disappeared."

"Why didn't he ever call us?"

John closed his eyes. This was where it got hard. "He was taken by a demon," John said. "And the demon put a spell on him to block his memory. We only managed to break it last night."

Jim shook his head slowly. "You're sure? This isn't some . . . I don't know . . . some kind of trick?"

"It's Dean," John said, a grin spreading across his face. "Bobby and I have both tested him, and there are . . . there's plenty of evidence." He bit his lip. "Jim, I've come to ask for your help."

"Of course," Jim said. "Not that there's much I can do right now."

"Mostly I want you to do research, because this is bigger than anything I've ever even touched on. Bigger than I had any clue of." John stood up and walked over to the cross on the side table. Looking down at it, contemplating all that it signified, he said, "Jim, do you believe in angels?"

"In what sense do you mean?" Jim asked.

"Angels," John said. He turned around. "Messengers of God."

"Like actual angels?" Jim asked.

"Like in the kitchen talking to us angels," John replied.

Jim shook his head. "Angels don't interact with people, John," he said. "Angels don't even perform miracles anymore, not according to doctrine or anything else I've ever heard."

John shrugged. "I was dubious myself, I have to admit, but after last night, I don't know what else to think. Have you ever known a demon to heal? Without some kind of deal?"

Jim rolled himself over to a set of shelves and pulled a worn binder off. "I don't remember anything of that sort." He put the binder in his lap and returned to the desk. "This is a compilation of all the instances I've ever run across where demons acted in what a normal person might consider a 'positive' manner." He flipped through to a tab that read 'Healing' and began to scan through the pages. John began to pace, wondering when Margie would be back. "How long are you staying for?" Jim asked.

"I figured I'd stay over tonight, then go back to Bobby's," John replied.

"Then when Margie gets back, I'll send her on home," Jim said. "I think even the council of deacons can agree that an old friend staying the night will cover my needs." John nodded, relieved. "So, nothing I see suggests that demons can heal without first gaining some kind of concession from a human, a duly struck bargain of some kind."

John took a deep breath and nodded. "That's what I thought. There's a lot of information here to compress into a short time, because I've got Bobby gathering some of the others together to try and figure this out as soon as possible, so I've got to get back to Ithaca. Besides, I promised the boys I'd be back tomorrow."

Jim pulled up a sheet of blank paper and a pen. "Go for it, John."

"Dean was held by the demon for nearly two months," he said. "Far from trying to kill him, he put multiple glyphs on Dean's body to control him. There are a pair on his back designed to protect him from angels and demons both."

"A demon put a spell on him to protect him from demons?" Jim said incredulously.

"Other demons," John said. "He was in the process of creating a link between himself and Dean when Dean escaped. Thank God. The spell was ruined by the ER."

"Wait, the ER? What kind of glyphs are these? Tattoos?"

John closed his eyes and leaned on the table. "They're actually carved into Dean's skin," he said. "On his torso. The link glyph was open and bleeding freely when he was found." Jim didn't respond, and after a moment, John looked up to see that the pastor was staring unseeing at the opposite wall. His hands were clenched tightly, and the pen was bending. "Jim!" No change. "Jim?"

The front door opened at that moment, and Jim started at the sudden sound. His eyes refocused on John's face. "My God, John, is he all right?"

"Amazingly so," John said. "I mean, he definitely has PTSD, but he's still the same kid, and he's even more protective of Sammy."

Margie walked in with a stack of letters. "Here it is, Reverend," she said. "You want me to open them for you?"

"I have a broken ankle, my dear, I can manage a letter opener," Jim said, turning off the dismay with practiced ease. "Actually, John will be staying the night, so why don't you go on home?"

"I can stay," she said, glancing dubiously at John. "Are you really up to company, sir?"

"I'm fine, Margie, and John's a very old friend. Please, I'd rather you went. You can come back in the morning, around ten, or whoever is on duty for tomorrow can."

She nodded. "All right, if you insist." She left the room, and they could hear her moving around for a few moments. She stuck her head in with her jacket on and her purse over her shoulder. "See you tomorrow morning, Reverend."

"See you, Margie."

John walked out to grab himself a soda and make sure that she'd left. He saw her walking around the church and went back to Jim with a couple of sodas. "You hungry or anything?" he asked.

"John, go on," Jim said, taking the drink and glaring at him. "He has PTSD and is protective of Sammy. Do you know what the demon wanted from him? And why all the questions about angels?"

John shook his head. "Nothing Dean's been able to tell us so far makes it clear what the demon wanted from him, but we're certain he wasn't done. And the angels . . ." He shivered. "At this point, I've encountered two beings claiming to be angels, one named Zachariah, the other named Castiel." Jim rolled to the shelves again, but waved for him to keep going. "Zachariah approached me when I was out with Dean and informed me that he couldn't see Dean but that he needed to take Dean away to keep him safe."

Jim stared at him. "He did what?"

"He tried to get me to let him take Dean away," John said. "And when that didn't work, he tried to convince Dean to go away with him."

Jim shook his head, eyes full of doubt. "How do you know it was an angel?"

"Well, I don't know that for certain," John said. "Except that the one I believe really is an angel confirmed his identity."

"But what could he have meant that he couldn't see Dean?"

"The glyph that protects Dean against angels apparently makes it impossible for them to see him unless they somehow manage to touch him."

"That's odd," Jim said. John shrugged. "Why do you believe in the other angel?" The pastor's eyebrows went up. "Is that the one who did the healing?" John nodded. "He healed Dean? That's a blessing, if he was covered in scarified glyphs."

"Not . . ." John grimaced. "We're not sure we want the protection spells removed, however they were placed," he said uneasily. "And Castiel said he didn't dare do too much for fear of drawing the attention of both demons and angels. He healed a fingertip-sized gap in one of the lines of the memory blocking glyph."

"Just enough to break it?" Jim said, and John nodded. "Forgive me, John, if this seems an insensitive question, but why the hell do they care?"

"You think that question hasn't occurred to me already?" John asked. "I really want to know why demons and angels are both interested in my son, and why the demon told Dean that Sam was important."

Jim's eyes widened. "We always knew there was something important about Sam, but the demon actually said so?"

"Dean told me that this morning," John said. "Now, the demon's name is Azazel, but all we know about him right now is that the ancient Hebrews used to give him goats."

"That's not much."

"No, it's really not."

* * *

Sammy and Jeremy took off towards the cave after getting off the bus. They'd invited Dean to go with them, but Dean wanted to get home and talk to Bobby while John was gone. Dad. While Dad was gone. His mind wasn't transitioning as smoothly to Dad as his emotions had. But his emotions had recognized John instantly, whether his mind had nor not.

There were some questions he wanted to ask Bobby without Dad around. He needed to check his memories against reality, and the memories he wanted to check weren't ones he wanted to ask Dad or Sammy about.

He started back towards the house, moving away from the road amid the snow-covered rocks and hillocks, lost in thought. The hand slipping under his arm told him he'd made a mistake. "Dean, can't we just be friends?" she asked.

Dean detached himself from her very gently. "I'm not really interested," he said. "I've got to get to work."

"Dean –"

"Dean!" Sammy had come running up. "You'll never guess who's here!"

"Who?"

"Ellen! And Jo!"

Dean stared at him. "I barely remember them, Sammy."

"Well, they remember you, or at least Ellen does."

"Who's Ellen?" Trish demanded.

"Ellen's a friend of my dad's," Sammy said. "Not that it's any of your business." He grabbed Dean's arm. "Come on, she's dying to see you."

Dean left Trish behind without a backward glance. "I thought you were going to the cave. How'd you find out about Ellen?"

"Jo was on the path to the cave," Sam said. "I left Jeremy with Jo and came to get you." He glanced back towards Trish, who they'd left behind. "What did she want?"

"To be friends," Dean said. "I think she needs a grip."

"Whatever," Sammy said. "Come on, this is cool!"

Dean followed Sammy, his gut twisting a little with misgivings. He wasn't sure he was prepared to see a semi-stranger he hadn't seen since he was like seven or eight. Missouri and a vaguely familiar woman were sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee when they got inside the house. Dean walked in uneasily, and the woman looked up. "My God, Dean!" she exclaimed, getting to her feet and walking over to him. She cupped his chin in her hand and smiled at him. "Are you ever a sight for sore eyes, boy."

Dean blinked at her. "Is Bill here?" he asked, and it was only when he saw her eyes darken slightly with grief that he realized that Sammy had never mentioned Ellen's husband. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to bring up something . . ."

"You couldn't know, Dean," Ellen said, pulling him into a tight hug. "He died a year or so before what happened to you, but John doesn't like to talk about it."

Dean hugged her back, remembering her hugging him when was about four or five with vivid intensity. He'd noticed that his early memories were coming back to him with extraordinary intensity, and he wondered if that was a result of them having been blocked for so long.

"Jo and Jeremy are probably at the cave by now," Sammy said.

"Who's Jeremy?" Ellen asked, drawing away from Dean slightly.

"A friend of mine from school," Sammy said. "He's cool."

Ellen looked mildly dubious, but she nodded and turned back to Dean. "You did grow up handsome," she said with a smile. "Now, I want to know everything, of course, but you're going to have enough people pestering you for information."

"I am?" Dean asked, glancing over at Missouri and Sammy. Sammy just shrugged.

Bobby walked into the room. "John asked me to gather some people together," he said. "Neither Caleb nor Joshua is coming till tomorrow."

Dean blinked. "Caleb?" he repeated. The name called up an image of a man with a buzz cut and kind eyes. Joshua gave him nothing at all.

Bobby nodded. "You used to stay with Caleb, too, from time to time," he said.

Dean felt a little overwhelmed. "Why? I mean, why did Dad want them all to come here?"

"I'd like to know that, too," Ellen said.

"He wants to explain that himself," Bobby replied, giving Ellen an exasperated look. "I told you he wouldn't be back till tomorrow, Ellen."

Ellen glanced over at Missouri. "Men," she said.

Missouri smiled. "I know what you mean," she replied. "Now, Sam, why don't you go off to your cave with Jo and Jeremy? Ellen and I have a lot to talk about, and I know that Dean wants to talk to Bobby privately."

Dean blinked at her. Every so often she reminded him that way of her uncanny ability to know exactly what he thought and what he wanted. It made him uncomfortable, and not just because her abilities seemed very unnatural, but also because he didn't like anyone to have that clear a bead on him. He kept a lot of himself to himself, and Missouri occasionally put it on display in ways he wouldn't himself have chosen.

Like now. Sammy turned to him with wide eyes. "Is something wrong?"

Dean shook his head. "Nothing's wrong, Sammy. I've just got some questions for Bobby."

"Why don't we go upstairs," Bobby suggested.

Ellen gave Dean a motherly kiss on the cheek. "I'll see you later, young man," she said with a warm smile, then she let go of his shoulders.

Dean shrugged with mild embarrassment and followed Bobby up the stairs. Sam hadn't left yet, but Dean figured he could count on Missouri and Ellen both to either get him moving or keep him occupied. Bobby led him into the TV room. He closed the door and picked up the bag that held the game console, still in its box. "Why don't we work on getting this thing hooked up?" Bobby suggested.

Dean nodded wordlessly and walked over to pull the TV out from the wall. They worked in silence for a few moments, then Bobby cleared his throat. "You had questions?" he asked.

In the middle of pulling lengths of cord out of plastic wrap, Dean used that as an excuse to delay a little longer, and then he said, "Did Dad talk to you after he left this morning?"

"No," Bobby said. "I assume he stopped by the school?"

"Just like you told him to," Dean said with a grin. The grin dropped off his face as he contemplated how that remark related to the questions he had. "Bobby, is that . . ." He grimaced. "You had to tell him to, didn't you? Or he wouldn't have."

Bobby paused, then raised his head slowly to look at Dean. "Oh. That's why you don't want Sam around." Dean looked away. "It's okay, Dean. You can ask anything you want." He took a deep breath and then shrugged. "Yeah, he probably would have just left town, expecting that I would tell you where he'd gone and why."

Dean swallowed and sat back, his fingers still working on the plastic wrap over the game controller. "Is he like that a lot?" he asked.

Bobby seemed to consider his words carefully, and when he finally spoke, it was with deliberation, as if he wanted to make sure he got it right. "John is a very task-oriented thinker," he said. "When he gets his mind set on something important, he tends to focus real hard on it, and that can lead to him forgetting other things."

Dean bit his lip. "So I do remember him doing that?" he asked, and Bobby grimaced apologetically at him. "I just wanted to check, because I was remembering things that didn't seem to make sense, and didn't seem very fair to John."

"Like him leaving you boys alone for long stretches when you were little?"

Dean shook his head. "I knew he left 'his Dean' alone at twelve with an eight-year-old little brother. I didn't realize he left us alone when I was as young as seven."

"You asked him to," Bobby said, and he shrugged a little, as if realizing that this didn't in any way mitigate the fault.

"I was seven," Dean pointed out. "I just . . . I look at stuff different from what I did then. I've seen kids who got left alone like that, ones who didn't have the kinds of protections Dad did put in place. Like knowing to call you guys, and me being able to shoot an intruder and not miss, but . . ." He shrugged again. "I don't know what to think."

Bobby had stopped messing with the Playstation and had turned to face him. "I can tell you two things, Dean." Dean waited. "One, your father loves you and Sammy very much, and he always has. Two, he didn't believe there was anywhere safe enough to leave you. I don't know all the details, but from things he's only told me in the last couple of weeks, I do know that there were attacks on you boys when you were tiny, before you were old enough to really remember."

"So leaving us alone was the answer?" Dean asked skeptically.

"Moving you around was the answer," Bobby replied, and Dean blinked at him. That made some sense. "If you weren't anyplace for very long, it was harder for whoever was looking for you to get a fix on you. And killing everything bad he could find was the answer."

"But he left Sammy here after I disappeared."

"I'd started the panic room then," Bobby said. "And he helped me finish it in record time, let me tell you. Leaving you boys with me wasn't the same kind of option before I had the panic room."

"I guess not." He sighed. "I just . . . I wanted to make sure I remembered right, and I didn't want to ask Dad. I don't . . . he'd feel guilty just for my asking, I think."

Bobby nodded. "You're probably right, but you may want to talk to him about it, anyway. There are things you may want to check that I won't remember."

Dean shrugged. "I don't want to make him feel bad. It's not like his not being there is what made me get grabbed."

"What do you mean?" Bobby asked.

"It was a demon – and he wanted me, specifically," Dean said. "It wasn't someone who saw an unsupervised kid and took advantage."

* * *

Bobby nodded slowly. That was a startlingly mature observation, but Dean appeared to be missing the next step. Dean's abductor hadn't been a psycho who'd noticed the lack of parental supervision – but it could have been. He wasn't about to point it out. Dean didn't need to think about what might have happened. What had actually happened was already bad enough.

Abruptly, Dean seemed to have had enough of serious conversation. He tossed the strange, crescent shaped object he'd been fiddling with aside suddenly and got down on his knees beside the box with the game console in it. Bobby looked at the front. PlayStation. Weird name. Within minutes Dean had the machine set up and plugged into the TV. "So, you want to play something? I've got a couple of basketball games and a driving game."

Bobby shrugged. "Sure."

"I got a couple of extra controllers," Dean said, tossing Bobby a smaller, clam-packed box. After a moment of looking for a way to open the thing, Bobby pulled out his knife and made short work of the plastic. Dean turned on the TV and the game thing, got both the controllers plugged in and sat down with a thump on the sofa. It was the kind of flop that Bobby's mother would have yelled at him for. Bobby grinned and didn't comment. He couldn't emulate it, older bodies didn't move that way, but he settled himself next to Dean and tried to figure out what he was meant to do with all the buttons and gizmos on the controller.


	31. Chapter 31

When he heard running footsteps on the stairs, he was startled to discover that several hours had passed.  He’d and Dean had raced repeatedly around some kind of virtual track, shooting obstacles with guns that were mounted on their virtual cars.  Bobby had noted with mild concern that none of Dean’s game choices involved human on human combat.  He might never have interested himself in these games, but he certainly knew that a lot of them were designed around fighting and killing opponents.  He’d ordinarily have expected a boy like Dean to want such games.  It was no doubt a continuing sign of the long term trauma he was suffering.

Sam came into the room.  “Missouri says it’s time for dinner,” he said.  “Hey, cool!  It’s set up!”

“And I’ve beaten Bobby six ways for Sunday at Full Throttle.”

“I’m still getting the hang of steering with a joystick, boy!” Bobby snapped in good humor.  “You just wait until I get used to this thing.”

“Sure,” Dean said with a snicker.  “That’s a likely excuse.”

Mockingly, Bobby gave him a menacing glower and they headed downstairs, where the two women had taken charge of the kitchen.  Missouri was still busy at the stove, and Ellen was checking the table over as if for completeness.  Bobby stared in flat astonishment at his table.  Where Missouri and Ellen had found the table cloth, he didn’t know.  He hadn’t seen any of the damned things in years, and seeing the gold fabric covering the kitchen table gave him an unexpected pang of grief.  Karen had been enormously house proud, and he’d let things slide in part because it made it easier not to think about her.  The only thing missing was a handful of flowers in Karen’s favorite blue vase.

Ellen looked up to his face, and something of his reaction must have shown in his expression, because she gave him a smile that was mixed about equally between sympathy and apology.  At that moment, before anyone could say anything that might make him feel even more embarrassed, Jo walked back in from wherever she’d been.

She stopped dead when she saw Dean, and Bobby recognized the look on her face.  He glanced over at Ellen, wondering whether she would be concerned by the incipient adoration in Jo’s expression.  Ellen just shrugged with apparent resignation, and Bobby realized she’d been expecting it.

“Jo, this is my brother Dean, Dean, this is Jo.”

Dean stared at the girl and then he grinned.  “I remember you,” he said, and Jo’s eyes widened in something perilously akin to worship.  “You were the biggest pain in the ass!”

Jo’s eyes flew even wider with astonishment and outrage.  Ellen turned straight around, and Bobby could tell she was trying to keep her laughter from the kids.  “What do you mean?” Jo demanded.

“Oh, you and Sammy were always into stuff together, and I swear, you got him into more trouble in ten minutes than he’d have gotten into on his own in two days, and given Sammy, that’s saying something.”

Sam had started out to laugh, but by the end of that statement, he’d joined Jo in her outrage.  Ellen had managed to bring herself back under control, and Bobby shared an amused look with her at the expense of all three kids.  Missouri turned around, wiping her hands on a dishrag.  “Well, two- and three-year-olds are all about getting into trouble,” she said.  “That’s how they learn.”

Dean shrugged.  “Yeah, well, I was trying to keep Sammy out of trouble, so chasing the two of them around drove me about half-wild, let me tell you.”

“Well, I don’t remember you,” Jo said tartly, though as a comeback it could have used some work.

“The last time we visited you guys was when I was about seven,” Dean said.  “That would have made you, what, four?  I’d be surprised if you did remember me.”

Ellen walked over and straightened Dean’s hair.  “You were eight,” she said.  “Jo was five, and Sammy was four, and you were far too serious and responsible for your age.”

“Someone had to be,” Dean said, shrugging.

Neither of the younger kids got the reference, and for Dean it was just a fact.  All three adults winced slightly.  There was a broken-sounding ding, and Bobby recognized his timer.  Missouri turned back around and opened the oven door, flooding the room with the smell of baking bread and roasting meat.  “Dinner will be ready in five minutes, y’all,” she said.  “Sam, Dean, Jo and Bobby, get washed up.  Ellen, can you reach me down that bowl over there?”

Bobby watched the kids go amicably enough off towards the mudroom, and let out a sigh of pure relief.  “That sure headed infatuation off at the pass,” he said quietly, walking over to the kitchen sink.

“Did it ever,” Ellen said.  “I could kiss that boy.  She talked about him nonstop all the way here, like he was some kind of conquering hero, deserving of a hero’s welcome.”  She snorted.  “I was expecting to have to rescue him from her.”

“Don’t think you’re off the hook yet,” Missouri said.  “Let’s see, potatoes, corn, green beans . . . Bobby, will you carve off some slices from the roast beef?”

Bobby set to with a will because the beef smelled amazingly good, and he was hungry.  He saw what Missouri meant over the meal as Jo continued to shoot Dean sly glances.  Lord save them all from teenagers.  Neither Sam nor Dean seemed to notice, which could make for some entertaining moments later on.  He’d never gotten the impression that Sam harbored any secret yearnings for Jo, but the last time they’d seen each other they’d been eleven and twelve.  Not ages conducive to romance, for the most part.

John called after dinner and spoke to both of the boys to tell them good night, another improvement that Bobby hoped would continue.  Bobby hovered nearby on the pretext of helping with the dishes, so he heard most of what they said.  It was all commonplace stuff, and when Dean hung up, he said, “Dad says he’ll be back tomorrow around eight, so after Sammy and I are already at school, but before anyone sane gets up.”

“What are you talking about, Dean?” Sam asked.  “You’re always up before eight, even on Saturday.”

“I said anyone sane, squirt,” Dean replied.  “I wasn’t including me.”  He walked over and hefted his backpack.  “I’ve got homework.”

“I did mine in class,” Sammy said.  “I was going to go watch TV.”

“I can watch and work,” Dean said.

As the three kids started towards the stairs, Ellen said, “JoAnna Beth Harvelle?  Where are your books?”  Jo turned and grabbed her own backpack and walked away without a backward glance at her mother.

“Slave driver,” Bobby said, chuckling.

“When I took her out today, I had her go to all her teachers and get homework for today and tomorrow, so she wouldn’t be behind,” Ellen said.  “She’s going to college if it kills her.”  She grabbed Bobby’s arm and pulled him back to the table, nodding as Missouri joined them.  “Bobby, can you please tell me what’s going on?”

Bobby sighed.  He went to the fridge and grabbed a beer, raising his eyebrows to see if either of the women wanted one.  Ellen nodded but Missouri declined.  Bobby sat down and pushed one of the beer bottles across to Ellen before opening his own.  “What did John already tell you?”

“That Dean was kidnapped by a demon, that the demon carved spells into his skin and that one of the spells caused amnesia.  Oh, and that the demon had him for two months.  Beyond that, nothing.”

“That’s about all we knew at the time John went to get Missouri,” Bobby said.

“But it’s not all you know now,” Ellen said, glancing back and forth between him and Missouri.  It wasn’t a question, it was a statement.

Bobby shook his head.  “We’ve identified four glyphs.”  Ellen raised her free hand in a querying gesture.  “The ones on his back are protections against demons and . . .”  He paused, not sure how she was going to react.  “And against angels.”

“Angels?” Ellen exclaimed, glancing at Missouri for confirmation.  Missouri nodded.  “Angels?” Ellen repeated, looking at Bobby.

“Messengers of the light was how my book put it,” Bobby said.  “But since John and Dean have now encountered two card-carrying angels, I’m thinking that it’s definitely longhand for angels.”

“They’ve encountered actual angels?”

“One of them can heal.  Not a lot, but a little.”

“Oh, he was an angel, all right,” Missouri said.  “I . . .”  She shook her head.  “I’ve never felt anything like it.”

“So, does this have anything to do with what happened to Mary?” Ellen asked.

Bobby grimaced, Missouri spoke up.  “The demon who kidnapped Dean is the one who killed Mary,” she said.  “I sensed it from the moment I touched Dean.”

“You said four,” Ellen said.  “What are the others?”

“Well, it appears that the protections against demons made it impossible for the demon to find Dean once he’d escaped.  The demon – his name is Azazel by the way – had started a glyph to link them together, but it hadn’t completely healed when he was . . . from what Dean says . . . called away.  Dean escaped, the glyph opened up and started bleeding, and the doctors ruined its effectiveness by accident in treating it.”

“Well hallelujah,” Ellen said.  “Link them how?”

Bobby shuddered.  That one had given him more than one nightmare.  “It would have made it possible for Azazel to find him wherever he went, no matter what, hear him from a distance – it might even have enabled him to look through Dean’s eyes.  The description was both vague and kind of encompassing.  Regardless, it doesn’t work.”

“Thank God,” Missouri murmured.

“Truly, and I assume the last one is the memory spell?”  Bobby nodded.  “And that one’s broken?”

“Yup.  Castiel leaned down and touched his skin, healing just enough to break the lines of the glyph.”

“Castiel, that’s one of the angels?”  Bobby nodded.  “And what about that protection against angels?  Is he going to break that one, too?”

“I doubt it,” Bobby said.  “And we don’t think we want him to.”

Ellen stared at him in shock.  “Why the hell not?”

“Because they don’t apparently all agree on the best course of action,” Bobby said.  “The first angel John met tried to take Dean away from him.  Fortunately, they can’t see Dean unless they can manage to touch him.”

“Son of a bitch,” Ellen said feelingly.  She looked up.  “So, what does John want us all for?”

“He’s apparently decided to stop trying to fix everything on his own,” Bobby said, and didn’t add that it was about time.  “He wants to get all the minds he can working on this now that angels and demons have both shown an interest in his boys.”

“Boys?” Ellen repeated.  “Sam, too?”

“According to Dean, Azazel said Sam was important, and it was in his nursery that Mary died.”

A footstep in the doorway made them all turn.  Dean was standing there.  “I’m glad I made them let me come to get the sodas and snacks,” he said, looking disapprovingly at them.  He gave Ellen a sober look.  “Sammy still doesn’t know most of this, and Jo doesn’t need to know about it either.”

Ellen stood up and walked over to Dean.  He looked mildly uncomfortable, like he wasn’t sure what to expect, but Ellen just cupped his chin.  “Still shouldering all the responsibility, Dean?” she asked, and he shrugged.  “You’re a good boy.”

“Dude, it’s not like I’m Atlas or something,” Dean said, pulling away.  Ellen chuckled and stepped back.  Dean walked over and opened the fridge, pulling out three Cokes.  Then he grabbed a couple of bags of chips.  “So, Dad’s gathering a war council, huh?”

“That he is,” Bobby said.

“I knew he was pulling Pastor Jim in, but I didn’t know he was calling anyone else.”  He glanced around at them, then left again.

“We still have more work to do, Bobby,” Missouri said, gazing after Dean.

“Not without John,” Bobby replied.  “I value my life.”

“No, of course not, but we’re going to have to get back to that soon, because I need to be getting home.”  She glanced towards the doorway.  “And Dean’s getting anxious about it.”

“Poor kid,” Ellen said.

“Strong kid,” Bobby replied.  “Well, I’ve got more research to do.  Make yourself at home, Ellen.”

“Trying to identify the last glyph?” Ellen asked.

“And the two brands,” Bobby said.  Ellen gulped uneasily.  He rose and went back to work.  Ellen and Missouri disappeared upstairs, and after a while, Dean and Sam came down.

“Good night, Uncle Bobby,” Dean said as they passed through, and Bobby couldn’t help the little glow of pleasure he felt at hearing Dean call him that.  He got up and checked the protections on the house before going to bed.


	32. Chapter 32

A storm blew up in the night, but there was no call from the school warning them of a snow day.  By morning it was just periodic flurries, so Sam and Dean set off for the bus stop.  Jo walked with them despite the fact that there was no reason for her to go.  Dean listened to her and Sammy talk about things he barely understood and people he didn’t know, amused as hell.  Having Jo around must be what it felt like to have a cousin.  Someone you knew and remembered, but who didn’t know everything about you.  He liked it.

Jeremy ran up and the three of them started to plan some kind of an outing for after school.  Dean let himself drift back into their orbit, and they included him naturally in the planning.

Dean was surprised not to find Trish waiting at the bus stop.  “She’s not coming,” Jeremy said when he asked.  “She claimed to have a fever, and Mom bought it, like always.”

“Who’s Trish?” Jo asked.

“My older sister,” Jeremy said.  “Be glad you’re not meeting her.  She wouldn’t like you.”

Jo bristled slightly.  “Why not?”

Jeremy shrugged.  “Because you’re prettier than she is.”  At this response, Jo grinned, preening a little, and Dean kept his laugh internal.

They reached the road and the bus stop only to find that the road was icy.  Sammy looked both ways, his face worried.  “I’m thinking they’re probably not coming today, guys,” he said.

“Maybe we should wait and see,” Jeremy suggested, and Dean remembered that he’d come here from Texas.

“It’s looking pretty iffy to me,” Jo said, glancing around.

Jeremy was saying something about not wanting to get in trouble when Dean noticed the clouds behind them.  They were coming in fast with a wind that chilled him to the bone.  “I think we’d better get home,” he said anxiously.  He didn’t have much experience with this kind of weather, but those clouds weren’t giving him happy feelings.

Sam turned around and blinked.  The wind was rising rapidly, and the snow was blowing up off the ground in the fields they’d just walked through, limiting visibility. “You’re probably right, but I’m not sure we should go back the way we came.”  They all looked around worriedly, and Jeremy took a couple of steps towards the path to the two houses.

A rushing roar sounded beside them, and they all turned.  The Impala had pulled up in the spot the bus usually took, skidding slightly on the icy road.  John leaned over and pushed the front passenger door open.  “Everybody in,” he ordered.  “You, too, Jeremy.”

They all piled in rapidly, Dean in the front and the others in the backseat.  “Why are you out here?” Sammy asked.  “This isn’t the way back to Bobby’s from Pastor Jim’s.”

“I heard the announcement of a snow day on the radio, but given how late it was, I thought you boys might have gotten to the bus stop already and thought I’d check.”  He glanced into the mirror.  “Hello, Jo.  Haven’t seen you for a while.”

“Hi, John,” she said.

“Jeremy, I think I’d better take you back to our place.”

“Sure,” Jeremy said anxiously as the winds picked up even more.  Dean took a deep breath and tried not to show his own nerves as his father pulled back onto the road.

“Where’s your sister?” John asked.

“She’s still at home,” Jeremy said.

“Glad to hear it.”  After that, John concentrated on the road.  Visibility was worsening by the minute, and, despite the sheer weight of the car and everything in it, they kept losing traction with the road.

“Bobby’s going to come out after us if we don’t get back soon,” Sammy yelled from the backseat.

John just nodded.  Dean glanced over the seat at the three kids sitting back there.  They were all white-faced and tense.  At least if they got stuck in the car on the road, there were five of them.  That would provide a fair amount of heat right there.  Finally, the gates to the salvage yard came into view, and John turned in.  The walls of crushed cars were so far protecting the environs somewhat, but Dean thought it probably wouldn’t last long.  When they pulled up in front of the house, he could see Bobby, bundled up like a mummy, starting out across the snow.

John leaned on the horn, and Bobby turned around, running towards them.  When they’d stopped, John got out first, and Dean heard Bobby start to speak.  “John, the kids are –”

“Right here,” John said, and they all got out of the car.

Bobby’s eyes counted them.  “If you’ve got Jeremy, where is –”

“She never left home this morning,” John said.  “Jeremy needs to call his folks to let them know he’s here and safe.”

John and Bobby hustled them all inside where they found Ellen bundling up to follow Bobby.  She grabbed Jo and hugged her tightly, anxiety clear on her face.  Bobby took Jeremy straight into the kitchen to use the phone.  Missouri was in the kitchen making a huge pot of hot chocolate.  They all gathered around the kitchen table while Jeremy made his call.

“Joshua and Daniel have both called,” Bobby said.  “They’re just going on back home.  Caleb didn’t start out because he had storms up his way.”

John nodded.  “Makes sense.  Damn it.”  He glanced around at the group.  “I’ll tell you what I got from Jim later.”

“Bobby?” Jeremy said.  “My dad wants to talk to you.”

Bobby walked over and took the phone.  “Sorry to trap you here, Ellen,” John said.

“It won’t be more than a couple of days, John,” Ellen said.  “Becky will be fine.  She’ll call her sister in and they’ll manage.”

Missouri passed out the hot chocolate, then absented herself, and Dean watched her go without surprise.  There were way too many people here for her now, and they were probably battering at her shields like crazy.  He hoped she’d be okay, since she couldn’t even go for a walk to get some peace.

Bobby hung up.  “Jeremy, your dad agrees that you should stay here at least until the wind dies down enough that there’s decent visibility to get you home.”

“Cool!” Jeremy said.  “I hope it lasts till tomorrow.”

“Have you had breakfast, Jeremy?” Ellen asked, and he nodded.

“The PlayStation’s all set up,” Dean said, and he suddenly had a very devoted audience in both Sammy and Jeremy.  “Why don’t you three go on up, and I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

“You don’t have any good games,” Jo complained.

Ellen rounded on her.  “If you don’t like the games, I know you have enough schoolwork to keep you busy.”

Jo rolled her eyes and ran after Sammy and Jeremy.

Dean turned to John.  “So, I guess I’d better keep to Uncle John until Jeremy goes home?” he asked.

“Uncle John?” Ellen repeated.  “Why?”

John grimaced.  “The State of Georgia released a child they thought was eighteen, but he won’t be eighteen till next Friday.  I don’t want to risk them figuring out he’s underage.  I know it’s paranoid, but given my life, I think I’m entitled to a little paranoia.”

Ellen gave them both uneasy looks.  “Trouble is, Jo knows he’s Sammy’s brother, so she may let the cat out of the bag at any moment.”

Dean hadn’t thought of that.  He turned and hurried up the stairs to the TV room to try and head them off.  When he got up there, he heard Jo speaking.  “Not Hunter,” she said.  “His name is Winchester.  Dean Winchester.”

Dean felt a thrill at hearing his own name for the first time in nearly six years, despite the fact that it meant the secret was out.

And then agony exploded through his torso.  He could hear an excited jabber as he fell to his knees, but he couldn’t understand any words.  Clutching his ribs, he rode with the pain, and after a moment, a sudden clarity came to him.  The pain wasn’t any better, but he knew that there was a way to end it.  He had to return to Azazel.  Drawing in a tortured breath, he dragged himself to his feet and started back down the stairs.  He walked straight past the door to the kitchen, supporting himself on walls as he went.  He felt a few things fall off, heard them hit the floor, but he had no attention for them.  He knew what direction Azazel lay in, and he had to find him or the pain would never stop.

The door posed a problem till his fingers remembered the deadbolt, but then he stepped out into the whiteout of the storm, the lack of visibility irrelevant before the beacon glowing in his mind.

* * *

John shivered as a frigid breeze blew through the kitchen.  He turned to Bobby.  “What –”

Bobby’s face went white, and he hurried out of the room towards the front door.  Alarmed by the immediate near-panic on Bobby’s face, John followed him.  The hallway was littered with pictures and books that had fallen off stacks on top of bookshelves.  Most alarming, however, was the fact that the front door was wide open to the elements.

“What’s going on?” Ellen asked, coming after them, just in time to see Bobby shut the door and lock it.

“Did it fail to latch?” John asked, his heart starting to beat faster.

“Sam!” Bobby hollered, and a moment later they all heard feet on the stairs.  Sam, Jo and Jeremy all came running down.  “You were last in.  Did you lock the door?” Bobby demanded as soon as Sam came in sight.

Sam nodded, looking confused.  “Of course I did.  It doesn’t always stay closed in high wind if you don’t.”

John looked at the trio.  “Where’s Dean?” he asked.

Sam glanced at the other two.  “He stayed down here with you,” he said, eyes widening.

“He left to go –”  John grabbed for his coat, and as he did so, he saw Dean’s hanging on the rack.

“Sam, look for Dean inside the house,” Bobby ordered.  Both Jo and Jeremy followed Sam as he hurried off into the house.  Bobby grabbed his own coat.  “John and me’ll check outside.  Ellen, get blankets and wait down here just –”

There was a pounding on the door, and they all turned in surprise.  Bobby unlocked the door, but before he could open it, it flung wide, and Castiel staggered in carrying an unconscious Dean.  John rushed forward to help Castiel lower Dean to the floor.  He heard footsteps running behind him and knew someone was fetching blankets.  Dean’s hair and face were crusted with snow, and so were Castiel’s.

“What happened?” Castiel demanded.

“I don’t know,” John said, wrapping his coat around Dean in absence of anything else to use.  He brushed the snow off his son’s face, and saw that the wind had driven particles of snow and dirt across his skin at such velocity as to create fine scratches that were now beginning to bleed.  “We noticed the door was open and were about to go looking when you got here.”

“It has only been a few moments, fortunately,” Castiel said urgently.  “But I was not able to pinpoint his location very closely.”  The angel’s face, too, was marked with scratches from the storm.  John hadn’t had any idea that was possible.  “I had to go in physical search of him.”

“You don’t know what happened?”

“Again, I felt demonic magic, and I followed it to its source, but the storm interfered with my sense of it.”  He shook his head and looked up.  “I must go.  There are others of my kind searching for me.  I will return later in the evening.”

“Will Dean wake up and panic again when you go?”

Castiel shook his head.  “I believe that his unconsciousness is of a natural origin,” he said.  “Putting him to sleep was ineffective on this occasion.  I was forced to do a more drastic healing on his body to remove the impetus that was driving him onwards.  When the pain stopped, he fell unconscious.”

“Won’t that call angels and demons here?”

“I hope not.  I drew very little of the power I used from Heaven, so it should not, but I must go.”

John caught Castiel’s arm as he started to move away.  “Will those others of your kind come here?” he asked.

“Not if I am not here,” Castiel replied, and then, with a beating of wings, he was gone, leaving John alone with Dean and Bobby in the hallway.

Ellen came running up with a blanket.  John took it and wrapped Dean in it.  Dean stirred.  For a moment he just looked confused and bleary, but the minute sense entered his eyes, he looked around and saw John.  “Dad!” he murmured desperately, and he curled into John tightly, holding on as if afraid something would drag him away.  John bent over him and held him close, offering what comfort he could.  Shivers gave way to trembling.

John looked up.  “Bobby, we’d better get him to bed,” he said.  “Will it be warm enough down there, do you think?”

“They’re right close to the furnace,” Bobby said.

“Dean, can you get up?” John asked.  He helped Dean to his feet, but his son continued to cling to him.  Ellen had disappeared again.  The younger kids had also vanished, but he wasn’t going to worry about that just now.  He just got Dean down the stairs to his room.  “Let’s get you changed for bed, okay?” he asked, and Dean nodded wordlessly.  John wanted to know what Castiel meant about drastic healing.  One hint came when he realized that the left side of Dean’s undershirt was untucked.  Dean was absolutely obsessive about keeping that shirt tucked in completely.  John got the layers of shirts off him and stared in astonishment.  There was a handprint-shaped section of clear, normal skin on Dean’s left side, across the damaged glyph.  Apparently it hadn’t been altogether ruined, though John would lay odds it was now.  Dean looked down and tears began to pour down his face.

“Dad?” he said, his voice rough and quavery.  “Say my name.”  He looked up from his side, his eyes intent on John’s.  “Say my real name.  Out loud.”

John blinked at him.  “You’re my son, Dean Winchester.”  As he spoke, he felt Dean tense up, as if in anticipation of pain.  After John said the name, Dean let out a shuddering sigh and relaxed.  “Dean, what’s this about?”

“That’s what did it,” he said.  “I heard Jo say my name and I . . . it hurt.”  He gestured vaguely at his ribcage.  “And all of a sudden all I could think was that I had to get to Azazel, and it wouldn’t hurt anymore.”

John’s gut twisted.  “What?” he breathed, horrified.

Dean shook his head, looking up at him with anguish.  “I couldn’t control myself, all I knew was that if I found Azazel, it would stop.”  He leaned into John, burying his face in his chest, sobs shaking his shoulders.

“It’s okay, Dean, you’re okay.”

Dean tucked in tighter.  “Please, Dad!” he said, his voice broken and hoarse.  “Please don’t let him take me!”

John felt his eyes start to burn.  “It won’t happen, Dean.  I promise.  It will never happen."


	33. Chapter 33

Sam played with a focused intensity that swept all before him.  Admittedly, he was racing Jeremy and Jo, neither of whom had ever played this game before, and neither of whom were entirely freaked out about their brother.  It gave him kind of an unfair advantage.  He pulled through the winning posts again and sat back, breathing harder than he had any excuse to be.

“Sam, what happened?” Jo asked finally.

Apparently emboldened by Jo’s question, Jeremy piped up with.  “And what did she mean, he’s Dean Winchester, not Dean Hunter?”

Sam closed his eyes.  “You promise not to tell anyone until my dad says it’s okay?” he asked.

“Sure,” Jeremy said.

“Remember how I told you Dean was my brother, and then I said I was just saying that because we were close?”

“Yeah.”

“I lied.  We are brothers.”

“But –”  Jeremy broke off abruptly, looking nervously at Jo.

“What just happened?” Jo asked.  “Why was he outside?”

Sam looked over at Jeremy.  “What were you going to ask?”  He had a feeling he already knew.

Jeremy grimaced.  “Some of the kids were saying that your brother was kidnapped by a psychopath, and that’s why you were staying here before.”

Sam shrugged.  “Yeah, that’s true.”

“But Dean’s your brother?  I mean, the same brother?”

“The one who was kidnapped by a psycho?” Sam said.  He sighed.  “Yeah.  He got amnesia, and didn’t remember anything until we wound up in school together in Georgia.”  It wasn’t altogether true, but the truth would be impossible to explain to a civilian.

“But what just happened?” Jo asked, and she sounded like she was losing patience.

“I don’t know exactly, but I think it was probably a flashback.  He does that sometimes, and when he does, sometimes he freaks out and runs away.”  Sam was grasping at straws.  He didn’t have any idea what had happened, but it was the best explanation he could come up with that would make sense to Jeremy.  He just hoped Jo wouldn’t decide to contribute her two cents worth of the truth into the mix.  Dad would kill them all.

“Flashbacks?” Jeremy repeated.  “Like Viet Nam vets?”

Sam nodded.  “Just like that,” he said.  “I don’t know what he sees because no one will tell me, but I know he has them.”

“And that’s why he ran out into the snow without even a jacket?” Jeremy asked.

Sam nodded.

“That’s . . . that’s awful,” Jo said.

“It could be worse,” Sam said.

“How?” Jo asked pessimistically.

“He could still be missing,” he said.  “Or he could be dead.  Either of those would be worse.”

Neither of the others seemed to have anything to say to that.  They reset the game to the start and after a few minutes, Jeremy said, “Why don’t you want to tell anyone?”

“I guess because he was in foster care, and they released him because he was eighteen.”

“So?”

Sam shrugged.  “He’s not really eighteen yet.”

“Could they really take him back from his own father?” Jeremy asked.

“We’d have to prove it was true and stuff,” Sam said.  “And I don’t think Dad wants to deal with it.”

“You know,” Jo said, “they couldn’t simultaneously say that he was underage and that John wasn’t his father.”

“What do you mean?” Sam asked.

“Well, the reason they’d know he wasn’t eighteen yet is because you know who he really is, he’s your brother.  But if they said he wasn’t really your brother, or that there was no proof, or whatever, they wouldn’t be able to say he wasn’t eighteen.”

Sam nodded.  It made sense, but . . .  “Try telling that to my dad,” he said.

“I will,” Jo replied, and Sam suspected she was serious.

“Look, it’s only a week,” he said.  “A week from Friday.”  Jo shrugged.

Jeremy moistened his lips.  “But . . . is he okay?” he asked anxiously.

“He’s fine,” Bobby said from the door.  They all turned in surprise.  “Now, I know Sam doesn’t need to be told this, but I want you other two to listen to me.”  Jeremy and Jo exchanged a startled look.  “Do not ask Dean what happened.  If he wants to talk about it, he will, but don’t ask.  He’s going to be embarrassed and all kinds of freaked out, and he doesn’t need to be pestered.”

Jo and Jeremy nodded, and Sam slumped with relief.  “He didn’t get frostbite or anything?”

“Why don’t you go on downstairs and look in on him, Sam,” Bobby suggested, and Sam wasn’t waiting to be asked twice.  He dropped the controller and bolted down the stairs.  He ran into the room and stopped in stunned shock.  Dean was leaning into their father’s arms, and he wasn’t wearing a shirt.  Sam realized suddenly that he hadn’t ever seen Dean undressed yet.

Dad looked up and his eyes widened.  He reached out and picked up a blanket to pull around Dean, but Sam had already seen the scars on his brother’s back and side.  Dad and Bobby and Castiel had all said Dean had spells on him, but no one had even hinted that they were . . . on his skin like that.

Sam forced his feet to start working again.  Dean didn’t move at all, and Sam wondered if he was sleeping.  Their dad eased Dean down onto the bed, covering him up, but Sam got a flash of scars on his chest and belly as well.  Dean didn’t seem to want to let go of their dad, and Sam hurried forward.  “Do you need to go talk to Bobby?” he asked quietly.  “Because I can stay with him.”

“Let me get a shirt onto him.  I don’t think he wants you to see the . . . um . . . the scars.”

Sam grabbed a shirt out of the drawer and watched his father slip it over Dean’s body.  He stirred slightly, but didn’t wake.  Sam kicked off his shoes and took off his jeans and his outer shirt.  “I can stay with him,” he said again, and he climbed into bed with his brother on the other side.  The minute he was in range, Dean cuddled up to him, and Sam pulled him close.

Dad stood for a moment, looking down at them.  “I’ll call you boys when it’s time for lunch.”

Sam nodded, stroking Dean’s back.  His father touched Dean’s head, then left.  Sam curled in and stared fervently at nothing.  One of these days that demon would pay.  Sam would see to it.  If his father didn’t get to him first.

* * *

John went up the stairs to find Bobby and Ellen in the kitchen.  “Where are Jo and Jeremy?”

“Upstairs, playing games, and I gave Jo a talking to about confidential information,” Ellen said.  “Dean’s okay?”

“Dean’s going to be okay,” John said, sitting down, taking the beer Bobby offered him gratefully.  “Castiel healed a good bit more of him this time, about sixty percent of the glyph on his left side is gone.”

“I thought that one was inactive,” Bobby said.

“Apparently not.  When Dean heard Jo say his name out loud, he says . . . he says it hurt and that he knew the only way to make it stop was to go find Azazel.”

Bobby’s jaw dropped.  “That’s why he left the house?” he asked breathlessly.  John nodded.  “But Castiel brought him back.”

“That was Castiel, huh?” Ellen asked.  “He seems very young.”

“He’s an angel,” John said.  “I’m not sure age means anything.  Zachariah looked middle-aged.”

“What did you get from Jim?”

“There are stories that Azazel was a seducer of angels,” he said.  “That he was the one who encouraged the Grigori to fall.”

“The who?” Ellen asked.  She looked at Bobby’s expression.  “I can tell that it’s not good news.”

“According to legend, the Grigori are a group of angels who chose to fall from grace,” Bobby said.  “They’re the source of the nephilim.”

“Nephilim?” Ellen repeated.  “You’ve lost me, guys.”

“Children of angels and humans,” John said.

“Again, this is all legend,” Bobby said, “but you’re saying that Azazel is connected to that?”

“According to what Jim found, he was the leader of the pack,” John replied.  “It’s from the book of First Enoch.”

Bobby got up and grabbed a book from his shelves and returned with it.  “The Apocrypha, huh?  I hadn’t gotten there yet.”

“That’s why more brains are better,” John said.  “The name sparked a memory for Jim.”

“The Apocrypha?” Ellen asked.  “Isn’t that those books of the Bible that got dumped for whatever reason?”

Bobby nodded.  “Books and partial books,” he said.  “First Enoch . . .”  He opened the pages and began to read.

“But if he was the leader of the pack –”

“Then Azazel was once an angel, too,” John said.  “But he fell and became human.”

“But what does that mean?”

“I don’t know.  But according to Castiel, Azazel is immune to holy water and most of the other weapons we have against demons.  Maybe there’s a reason.”

“You mean like he’s not a demon at all,” Bobby said, looking up.  “He’s an angel working on the side of Hell.”

“Assuming there is any such place,” Ellen said.

“We’ve met angels, Ellen, and demons,” John said.  “I’m beginning to think that a whole hell of a lot of the Bible is considerably more literal than we knew.”

“Maybe you should ask this Castiel character.  Where did he go, anyway?”

“He said his brethren were trying to find him, and that he had to go or he’d bring them here,” John said.  Grimacing, he shrugged.  “As far as what that means, I’d say your guess is as good as mine.”

“What about the healing?” Bobby asked.  “Didn’t he say that could bring the attention of the demons down on us?”

“He said he didn’t pull much of the power he used from Heaven, so it shouldn’t have.”  John bit his lip.  “I just wish I had any clue of what was going on.”

“Ask him,” Ellen said.  “If he ever shows up for more than a minute.”

John snorted.  “Yeah, I plan to.”  He took a long swig of beer and tried to think straight.  With Dean liable to go off the deep end at unpredictable triggers, however, it was a little hard.

* * *

When Dean woke up, he didn’t immediately move.  He could still feel faint wisps of pain along his nerves in his torso, and he could still hear Azazel’s voice in his head.  Another nightmare, and a doozy if he remembered it correctly.  He heard pages turning and opened his eyes.  Sammy was sitting next to him on the bed with a book in his lap, and Dean was curled up against his brother’s side.  A little embarrassing, but . . .

He shifted and looked down at himself.  The last thing he remembered was taking off his shirt so that John could look him over.  He didn’t remember putting this shirt on, and that worried him.

“Hey, Dean,” Sammy said softly.  “You awake?”

Dean pushed himself upright and nodded.  “Yeah, mostly.  Was I dressed when you came in here?”  Sammy flushed, and Dean knew the answer to his question.  “Damn it, I didn’t want you to see that stuff.”

“I didn’t see much, really,” Sammy said.  “Dad covered you up pretty quick.”

Dean shifted his shoulders uncomfortably.  “What are you reading?”

“That book on Teddy Roosevelt that Uncle Bobby loaned you.”  Sammy glanced down at it.  “I can see why you were so interested.  He’s way more of an activist than most of the presidents we have today.  He actually did stuff.”

Dean stretched.  “So, how obviously did I flip out?  Does everyone know what happened?”

“I don’t even really know what happened,” Sammy pointed out, and Dean looked away.  “But everyone knows you went out in the snow without your jacket.  I’m still not sure how you got back.”

“I think it was Castiel,” Dean said, scanning back through his memory.

“So, I told Jo and Jeremy that you’d probably had a flashback to the psycho who kidnapped you.”  He shrugged and Dean’s startled expression.  “Well, Jo had already more or less told him that you were my brother, not my cousin, and everybody at school knows that my brother was kidnapped by a psycho, so he drew the conclusion on his own.  And the flashback . . . I knew you wouldn’t want anyone to know about those, but it was the best explanation I could come up with that didn’t make you look like an idiot.”

Dean snorted dryly.  “Thanks.  Hell, it’s just Jo and Jeremy.  Jo knows about the demon already, I’d lay odds, and Jeremy will keep the flashbacks a secret if we ask him to.”

Sammy nodded.  After a moment, he said, “Dean, what did happen?”

Dean closed his eyes.  He didn’t want to think about that.  “I heard Jo say my name, and it activated something that . . . it hurt, all over.”  He shuddered.  “Sammy, I was serious, utterly serious when I told you to run if I ever told you to, and you didn’t promise.”  Sammy blinked at him owlishly.  “Will you promise me?”

“I can’t abandon you, Dean.”

“You wouldn’t, Sammy, I know you wouldn’t.  But you can’t save me if you get caught, too.”

“But I might be able to stop him from taking you if I helped.  If I ran, I couldn’t.”

“He’s a demon, Sammy.  You won’t stand a chance.  Nothing personal, but you wouldn’t.”

“But there would be both of us, it wouldn’t just be me.”

“It might be,” Dean said.  “I might not be able to help.”

“What?  Why?”

Dean clenched his teeth, took a deep breath, and then took his shirt off.  Sammy stared at him in shock.  Moistening his lips, Dean said, “We still don’t know what all of these do.  Most of them, yes, but not all.”

Sammy’s eyes were wide and anxious as he looked at Dean’s chest and abdomen.  “What is that?” he asked.

“Uncle Bobby calls them glyphs,” Dean said.  “This is the one we don’t know anything about,” he said, touching his belly.  And no one’s said anything to me about the brands.  Castiel has broken the ones on my sides, but there’s two on my back and all sorts of weird little . . .”  Abruptly he couldn’t take it anymore and he pulled his shirt back on.  “Dots,” he said, his voice breaking on the word.  “I think that’s where the pain came from.”

“We’re going to get him, Dean,” Sam said, and it sounded like a promise.  “We’re going to find him and kill him.”

Dean’s gut growled loudly, and he glared down at it.  “Well that was anti-climactic,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a note, I see all of the angels you see in this story and will see in future stories as being 'played' by the same actors as they were in the show. After all, it's only about ten or eleven years earlier than the first canon encounter with these asshats. Hence, Zachariah is a middle-aged guy because he's ten years younger than the businessman type he masquerades as in S4E17 "It's a Terrible Life".
> 
> On another note, met Kurt Fuller at an SPN convention he wasn't supposed to be there for. He was in Vegas filming the Psych episode that's set in Vegas, and he just turned up at the Karaoke Party, and then in our elevator. He's awesome and fun to talk to! At least, he was for my partner. I stood like a dummy, grinning and utterly unable to speak.


	34. Chapter 34

Sammy snickered. "Let's go upstairs. Maybe you can lose to me at Full Throttle."

"Me? Lose? What have you been smoking, little brother?" He tucked in the shirt tightly and grabbed another t-shirt as he spoke. "You are going down!"

"I beat Jo and Jeremy without even trying hard," Sam replied.

"A little girl and a geek? I'm impressed." Dean pulled on a long sleeved overshirt and said, "Prepare to lose and lose badly." They clomped up the stairs and into the kitchen. The storm continued unabated. "What does this mean for school tomorrow?" Dean asked.

"Already cancelled," John said, coming into the room. He put down the books he was holding and walked over to Dean, putting his hands on Dean's shoulders. "How are you feeling?" he asked, meeting Dean's eyes.

"Embarrassed," Dean said. "Really, really embarrassed."

His father's hands tightened in a reassuring squeeze. "It's okay."

Dean knit his brows. "No, it's not. I don't know what else could make me do something like that."

"We just won't leave you alone," Sammy said.

"Dude, you are so not following me into the bathroom," Dean snapped. "And I'll have to be in school and stuff. So far the triggers have been my name and figuring out who I am."

"Is that what happened the first time?" John asked.

"Yeah, I figured out that I was Dean Winchester," Dean said, and he felt a frisson of fear upon saying the name, anxious that it would be different when he said it himself. Nothing happened, and he swallowed, looking up at John. "I figured it out, but it was all logic and intuition, not memory." He shrugged. "I'm not sure why it took me so long."

The room exploded with noise as Jeremy and Jo came running in, laughing. Dean was relieved that John took a step back and ended the intense moment they'd been sharing.

"Dean, you're awake!" Jo exclaimed. "Jeremy just beat your high score on Full Throttle."

"I've only played twice," Dean said. "I can get higher than that."

"Prove it," Jo said provocatively, and Jeremy looked faintly terrified by her boldness.

"You're on!" Dean replied, but as all four of them headed towards the stairs, the lights went out. It wasn't truly dark, but the light was dim enough to be a momentarily blinding jolt. They all stopped where they were, and then Dean heard two voices speaking almost simultaneously.

Bobby was evidently upstairs. "There are storm lanterns in every room," he called out.

"Stand still," Sammy said. "I'll get the lantern in the kitchen lit." Sammy moved past Dean and went into a cupboard, and a moment later, warm light filled that part of the room. He put the lantern down on the counter and pulled another one out of the cupboard.

"What are we going to do now?" Jo asked.

"We could tell ghost stories," Jeremy suggested.

"I know lots of good ghost stories," Sammy said.

Sam?" John said, and there was a warning tone in his voice.

"I do," Sam said with a grin that succeeded in being wholly innocent.

"I saw a ghost once," Dean said, and John turned and looked at him in surprise. "I think."

"I know bunches of ghost stories," Jo said.

"Cool!" Jeremy exclaimed. Bobby came in with Ellen and Missouri trailing behind him. "Can we light a fire in the TV room?"

"I was going to suggest it," Bobby said.

"We have marshmallows," Sam put in. "And I'm pretty sure there are graham crackers."

Bobby raised his eyebrows. "S'mores?" he asked. "I've got a stash of Hershey bars. Dean, they're on that top shelf there. I need to go out and get some more wood."

"Why?" Ellen asked.

"Heat's electric," Bobby replied. "If it doesn't come back up, we may be sharing beds tonight."

"I'll share," Jo said brightly, and Dean blinked uneasily at the look she shot him.

"Yeah, you will," Ellen said. "You'll share with me and Missouri, Jeremy, Dean and Sammy can share, and John and Bobby." Jo looked disappointed at this neat disposal of their persons. Dean wondered if Missouri would actually be able to do it.

"Yeah, that'll work," Bobby said. "In the meantime, we'll need wood. It's out next to the mudroom, so let's set up a line and pile some of it in the mudroom so we don't have to go outside for it later."

Dean started to go, but John caught his arm, and Dean saw Bobby give John a nod. "Not you, Dean, you've had enough cold today."

"I feel fine," Dean protested as Jeremy and Sammy went out to help Bobby.

"Humor your old man."

Dean sighed. It was impossible not to agree when John pulled the Dad card on him. Dad. He abruptly threw his arms around John and hugged him tightly. John hugged him back, and after a moment, Dean pulled away, sort of embarrassed. At least Jeremy and Sammy hadn't seen it. Or Jo. He could hear her in the mudroom, directing traffic like a little tyrant.

"No, pile it higher. We've got room for another whole row if you –"

"It will fall," Sam said, interrupting. "I know what I'm doing."

They continued to bicker until a third voice spoke up. "Guys, get over it. You're both right, and it doesn't have to be one or the other." Dean was impressed to hear Jeremy taking a stand. He usually seemed pretty timid. They all three quieted down and the work went more smoothly after that.

Dean grabbed some of the wood out of the pile and ignored the irritated mutter when he messed up Sam's neat handiwork. Carrying the wood upstairs, he set up to start a fire in the TV room, then sat back, staring at the pile of logs. Tinder and kindling were ready, logs were stacked, yet he couldn't bring himself to touch the matches, much less light the fire. He wasn't even sure he'd be able to stay near it without cold sweats breaking out.

Footsteps behind him made him look up. Sammy and Jeremy had come into the room. "Sammy, you want to light it?" he asked, getting up and backing away. He busied himself piling the game and all its controllers onto the TV cart and pushing it to the side of the room where it was out of the way. He then started drawing the chairs and sofa nearer to the fire.

The fire started with a whoosh behind him, and Dean's stomach twisted at the sound. He turned around to see the flames crackling merrily. It was oddly mesmerizing, and he realized that he'd seen several fireplace fires since he'd come to Bobby's and that not one of them had bothered him much. Maybe it was because it was so different, maybe it was because there weren't irons heating in them to burn him or heat the rods that had been tapped into him. It was just a fire, for warmth and creature comforts and nothing else.

Jo came in with skewers and marshmallows and the chocolate and graham crackers, and the three of them sat down on the floor in front of the fire, huddling close, because the house had already begun to chill a bit. The left a gap in their semi-circle for him to fill, and, swallowing, Dean walked over and sat down.

Jo passed them each a skewer and then stuck a marshmallow on the end of hers. "It's not really time for that," Jeremy said. "It needs some embers to really work."

Dean had a sudden flash of red hot embers and realized part of why the fires at Bobby's hadn't bothered him. Azazel had built his fires in braziers, and he'd banked them down till all that was left was the embers. He stabbed a marshmallow onto his skewer and stuck it into the fireplace. "This is fine." It caught fire, and he dropped the skewer. "Or not." He stood up. "I'll . . . be back." He turned and practically fled from the room and ran straight into Bobby and John in the upstairs hallway.

"Is the fire bothering you?" John asked quietly.

Dean shrugged, but his breath was coming quicker than it should have been, and he knew his eyes had to be kind of wild. "I am so stupid!" he growled, his voice as quiet as emotion would allow. "I lit a marshmallow on fire and freaked out."

"It's not stupid, Dean," John said.

"Yeah, but how do I explain being a friggin' basket case because there's a fire going in that room, huh? I mean, I just flipped out because my marshmallow lit up, and I'm not sure how I'm going to react to them sticking metal sticks into the fire." He shuddered.

"I can tell them not –"

"And I don't want to spoil their fun, either."

A hand on his arm made him turn and he found Sammy standing next to him. "Fire bugs you?" he asked. Dean nodded. "So, we'll move a little further away from the fire and we won't roast the marshmallows."

"No –" Dean grimaced. "I want s'mores, too," he said.

Sammy shrugged and squared his shoulders. "They're your friends and I'm your brother. We'll play it by ear, and if you start getting uncomfortable, we'll stop whatever's bugging you for a while." He grabbed Dean by the arm above the cast. "Come on, it will be fine."

* * *

John watched Dean go off in the capable hands of his brother and felt his eyes start to burn. Again. He turned right around and walked towards the stairs, Bobby close behind him. When they were out of earshot from the TV room, he said, "I am turning into a waterworks!"

"Hell, John, they get to me, too," Bobby said.

"You're not weeping every five minutes."

"And I'm not their father, either," Bobby shot back. "It's different for you, seeing them together, seeing them take care of each other. I'm unbelievably glad they're back together, but not the way you are."

"Does that mean I have to cry all the time?" John demanded.

Bobby laughed. "That just means you're human, John."

"How are we going to make dinner without power?" Missouri asked.

"I usually just heat something up over the fire in the library," Bobby said. Missouri immediately walked into the library, presumably to check out the arrangements and see if they were to her satisfaction. "John, if you weren't touched by the way they are together after all this time apart, I'd be worried about you."

John snorted. "Well, I'm moved to tears. Regularly."

"Do you have a cast iron pot big enough for chili for everyone?" Missouri asked.

"It's in the cupboard in the mudroom," Bobby said.

"Okay, then." She raised her voice. "Ellen, we'll do your chili."

"Good thing I put the ground beef in the fridge to thaw last night." She walked into the library. "Bobby, can we clear off this table a little for a work surface?"

"I have canned chili," Bobby pointed out.

"I suppose we could do that," Ellen said.

"You want to feed those boys out of a can?" Missouri asked.

Ellen blinked at her, looking intimidated. "Um . . . no," she said, but there was a lot of question in her tone.

Missouri looked around at all three of them. "I suppose it would be easier, given the circumstances."

"Considerably," Bobby said. "For one thing, I don't have anything to support a skillet on in that fireplace. Besides, by dinner time, the kids are going to be so full of marshmallows and chocolate that they won't even be hungry."

"There are three teenaged boys up there," Missouri said. "In other words, three bottomless pits. I don't know much about girls, but teenaged boys eat nonstop."

"I think Jo's heading for a growth spurt," Ellen said frankly.

Bobby shrugged. "My experience is limited to three years of Sam's appetite."

"You don't remember eating everything in sight when you were about sixteen?" John asked. "My stepfather constantly made jokes about putting the local grocer's kids through college."

"Well, let's get back to work. We've still got to figure out those brands and the markings on his belly."

Any amusement John had felt dropped away. "You're right. Maybe we should show the photo to Castiel. He might be able to identify it."

"What if he can't?" Ellen asked.

John opened his mouth, but he couldn't find any words.

"Well, then we'll know to be terrified," Bobby said. "Come on, John, let's get to work."

John followed him, trying hard not to imagine what it would mean if Castiel didn't recognize the last of the glyphs.


	35. Chapter 35

Thursday morning dawned clear and cold, but the buses still weren't running. Sammy had awakened earlier than the other two boys. He'd struggled out of the pile of limbs and gone upstairs to see what the weather looked like. They'd be able to go outside if Dad didn't freak out about the cold and Dean's little adventure.

He stirred up the fire in the library and dug out the fireplace toaster. Putting sausages into a skillet with a lid, he made a spot in the embers for it and covered it up with hot coals. He filled a small iron pot with water to boil eggs in and put another one on to boil water for coffee. Someone else was bound to be up soon, and in his experience, adults were usually much saner after they got their morning doses of caffeine.

First one down was Missouri, and then Dad. Sammy had just finished making coffee when they came in, putting it into an enamelware pot he could put in the fire to keep warm. He poured them each a cup and gave them toast, sausage and eggs.

"You're a good boy," Missouri said.

Sam shrugged, embarrassed, and went back into the library. Gradually everyone got up and came into the kitchen. Dean kicked back after eating his breakfast and looked at Sam. "Sammy, someday you'll make someone a good wife."

Sam glared at him across their father. "Jerk!"

Dean gave him an amused look. "Bitch," he replied, and Sam's jaw dropped. It was a familiar exchange that they'd done many times in the distant past. He grinned back at Dean and returned to his breakfast.

"Boys!" Dad exclaimed. "Language."

Sam lowered his head and looked down at the table, but he couldn't feel bad when he and Dean felt so right.

"I want to go see if the fort held together in the storm," Jeremy said.

"If you can go that far, you can go home and reassure your folks that you're all right," Missouri said.

"Yes, ma'am," Jeremy replied, looking mildly alarmed.

"We'll all go," Sam said. "We can check in with your parents, and then look at the fort."

"If we check in with my parents, they'll make me stay there," Jeremy said.

"Well, we did say you'd go home when there was decent visibility," Bobby commented.

"And I'm sure they're worried," John said. Jeremy sighed.

Dean cleared his throat. "How's this," he said, turning towards Sam. "You and Jo walk Jeremy home, and we all go out tomorrow after school to check out the fort." Sam blinked at his brother. Why'd he want to stay home?

"If there's school tomorrow," Jeremy said. The phone rang and Bobby went to get it.

"What are you going to do?" Jo asked Dean.

"Stuff," Dean said airily, and from the glance he darted in Missouri's direction, Sam guessed it was the stuff he wasn't allowed to be around for.

"Okay," Sam said. "I'll bet that's your dad, checking on when you'll be home."

A few moments later, Bobby came back to the table. "Jeremy, that was your father."

Jeremy heaved a sigh. "He wants me to come home?" he asked, and Bobby nodded.

Sam got up and grabbed Jeremy's arm. "Come on, let's get dressed."

"You go get dressed, too, Jo," Ellen said.

Sam didn't hear her response because he and Jeremy were on the stairs. "How weird was it to run into your brother out of nowhere at school?"

Sam snorted. "Extremely, but it was awesome. I beat up some bullies who were after him." Jeremy goggled at him. "I mean, I helped him beat up some bullies," Sam corrected, both in the interests of accuracy and fairness to his brother.

"That's cool," Jeremy said. "My sister would be more likely to join in on bullies ragging on me."

"That sucks," Sam replied. "Dean always took care of me when I was little." Jeremy sighed and started pulling on his warm clothes. Sam shrugged into his parka and pulled his snow pants over his jeans. "My dad was gone a lot when we were little, and Dean was always there."

"Until he got kidnapped?" Jeremy asked.

Sam nodded, biting his lip, not wanting to remember that night. He'd been alone in the motel room, waiting for Dean to come back with groceries, and he just never came back. Dad was unreachable, so he'd called Uncle Bobby late in the night. It had taken him more than eight hours to get there, but he'd shown up as fast as he could, and at the same time as Dad as chance would have it.

"Sam?"

Sam looked up. "What?"

"Where'd you go?" Jeremy asked.

Sam shook his head. "I was just thinking about . . . it doesn't matter. Let's go."

They went upstairs where Jo was ready and waiting, and then they went out into the snow.

* * *

John sat down at the kitchen table after the younger kids had left. He was a little distracted by the fact that, though he'd said he would, Castiel had not returned the previous evening, but he dragged his mind away from worrying about that. Dean had deftly stage managed events so that he stayed behind with the adults, and there had to be a reason for that.

Dean cleared his throat. "We haven't worked on my head for a few days," he said. "And while my memories are largely clear in my head now, certain things are still impossible for me to talk about."

"We didn't want to rush you," John said.

"Or wear Missouri out," Bobby added.

"Well, Missouri needs to get home," Dean said. "Being here is wearing her out." He looked over at her raising his eyebrows, and John glanced at her, a little startled. He noticed for the first time how tired she looked, and, thinking back, realized that she had spent less and less time with them as the days had gone by.

"Dean's right about that," she said reluctantly. "But what we're doing here is important, Dean."

"Yes, well, we've got a lot for Dad and Bobby to research already. I thought maybe we could do one more session, and then you could go home."

"But what if one more session isn't enough to get everything we need?" John asked.

"Then at some point, we go down and visit Missouri at home," Dean said, though John could tell the idea bothered him. John wasn't sure why, he could think of several possible reasons. "Anyway, Missouri needs rest, and she can't get it here."

"Is that true, Missouri?" John asked.

Missouri shrugged. "I'm afraid it is, John. I was going to talk to you about it later, but now is as good a time as any, I suppose."

John had a suspicion that Missouri's 'later' would have included fewer witnesses, but things were what they were. "If you're agreeable, then, Missouri, perhaps we'd better have our last session while Sam and Jo are out."

She breathed in deeply. "Let's get to work."

Ellen stayed in the kitchen while the three of them went into the living room. If Sam and Jo came back before they were done, she was to keep them out of the way.

As if both Dean and Missouri wanted to get the most out of this last opportunity, they stayed linked for a considerably longer time than they ever had before. John knew he was getting ready to break them apart when they finally released each other's hands and sat back. Both of them seemed unexpectedly at peace, and John was startled when Dean gave Missouri a hug afterwards. Thus far, the only physical contact he'd seen them make was strictly business.

Missouri stepped back and put her hands on his shoulders. "You are a good boy, Dean, never doubt it," she said. "Now, I'd better go write my report," she added, turning and walking towards the door. "You go for a walk, boy. John, you too. You all need some fresh air and sunshine."

"Thank you, Missouri, I mean that," Dean said.

She turned around and smiled at him. "You already thanked me, Dean. Now run along."

Missouri left and Dean turned to John. "I'm game, are you?"

John grinned at his son. "A walk in the snow with my son sounds like just what the doctor ordered."

"She's a psychic," Bobby said gruffly. "I'll let Sam know, so he don't worry if he comes back and finds you out."

Dean and John put on their outerwear and went outside into the chill, dry air. For a few moments, they walked in silence, but then John said, "How are you feeling, son?"

Dean laughed, and John gave him an odd look. "That depends on when you ask me, Dad," he said with a shrug. "Sometimes fabulous, sometimes not so much. I mean, having you and Sammy back makes everything great, but . . ." He shook his head. "I didn't know, before, how much of what Azazel did was blocked by that memory spell."

John grimaced. "So you've got new memories of that to contend with," he said grimly.

"But going through it with Missouri has helped some." Dean shrugged. "I'm not a big one for talking about my feelings, but I guess you have more right that most to know. Finding you and Sammy again . . . it more than makes up for anything else."

"I'm just concerned –" John started, but Dean interrupted him.

"Hey, is that a hawk?" he asked, pointing at a distant speck in the sky. John took the hint and changed the subject. They talked about cars and music and whether the Impala needed a CD player or not. Dean, to John's surprise, came down heavily on the side of not.

Sam and Jo turned back up just as they were going in, and the rest of the day was passed in something akin to family camaraderie. John hadn't really experienced that since long before Mary had died. After her parents had died, they'd largely lost contact with the rest of her family, and his parents had died before the boys were born. Neither of them had had any siblings, so there were no cousins, no aunts and uncles for the boys, but an outside observer wouldn't guess that here, with Jo, Sam and Dean squabbling amiably while they played a board game, Ellen looking on and breaking up fights before they got serious, Bobby drawing Dean aside to talk about cars. He didn't know that his boys had ever really experienced it, certainly not with their father around.

Missouri had disappeared upstairs again, and John realized that he'd been paying too little attention to what this was taking out of her. If the weather was good in the morning, he'd have to take her home. Dean was right. She deserved a rest, and she did look worn out. Ellen would also undoubtedly have to go home soon, so his plan of having a group discussion looked like it wasn't going to happen, or at least not this week. Maybe he should go and talk to them all individually, get them thinking about it, and then they could meet later.

He sat in the library where he'd retired to try and do some research, but he found himself watching his peculiarly extended pseudo-family in the kitchen. He thought the game on the table was Monopoly, and at the moment it was abandoned while Jo and Sam argued about who could best the other at pool. Dean and Bobby stood at the window, gesturing towards something outside, presumably the next car Bobby wanted Dean to work on. Ellen sat at the table with a cup of tea, contemplating the layout of the pieces.

Footsteps to his left made him look up. Missouri smiled down at him. "It does make a pleasant picture, doesn't it, John?"

John just nodded. "I figure I'll take you home in the morning if the weather is still clear."

"Actually, Ellen's leaving in the morning, so we figure I can travel with her as far as Elgin, and I can catch a bus from there."

"I can take you home, Missouri," John protested. "Are you up to traveling on a bus?"

"I'll be fine," Missouri said. "I won't know any of those people, so I'll have an easier time shielding them out. Besides, I don't want to take you away from your boys if I don't have to."

"I'll be leaving again soon anyway," John said.

"I know, and you have to, to protect them, but that means that every minute you can stay is precious and not to be wasted."

John shrugged, a lump rising in his throat as he watched Dean rejoin the group at the table and restart the game. "You're right. Thanks." He realized how paltry that sounded and looked up at her. "Thank you, Missouri, you've helped more than I can say."

"Hush, John. It's getting close to time for dinner."

* * *

School on Friday was pretty normal, except that some teachers extended assignment due dates and some didn't. Dean was just as glad he'd spent some of his downtime on Thursday finishing the paper on Teddy Roosevelt because Mr. Myers was one of the ones that didn't.

Oddly, despite only having been here for two weeks, he already felt more at home than he ever had in Fort William. Part of that was liking where he was living, no doubt, but part of it was that he felt more welcomed at Jackson High. Weirdly, his quirks, like not being able to handle fire, seemed to be helping him here rather than hurting him.

For the first time, the idea of finishing high school the normal way didn't seem totally stupid to him. For one thing, if he left school, he wouldn't see Sammy all the time because he'd be working or something. Not hunting, Dad had made it quite clear before Dean even knew he was Dad that finishing school was a prerequisite for hunting. Unless he left Dad and Sammy and found another hunter to apprentice himself to, he wasn't going hunting until Dad thought he was ready. Since his leaving was almost as likely as Jessica Alba coming over and asking him out, he was stuck not hunting for a while.

Ellen and Jo had left that morning, and Dean hoped they'd have an opportunity to see them again soon. Jo could still be a pain in the ass, but she was cool most of the time. They'd taken Missouri with them, but he'd already really said good bye to her the previous day. The help she'd given him was more than just providing information to John and Bobby about the torture Azazel had put him through. It would take a while to be certain, but he thought those memories were easing now. He could never have talked about them to a shrink – but maybe he had needed to share them.

At lunch, Tiffany said she was coming over to look at some parts on Saturday, and Megan invited herself along. Dean grinned a little foolishly and decided that life was definitely looking up.

* * *

When the kids got home from school, Bobby had to admit that he'd missed having Sam around the place in the years after his long stay. He was noisy sometimes, he could be a smart ass, and that went double for Dean, but having them around was an anodyne to the solitude he'd experienced for long years after Karen's death.

John was still irritating, but his focus had taken on a far more human component. He'd always wanted to keep the kids alive, but more than half of his efforts had usually been bent on killing the demon that got Mary. Bobby had wondered more than once if John would have sacrificed all three of them to kill the bastard. Now, watching him with his sons, he saw something different in John. He was no less driven, but now it was to preserve rather than destroy. Admittedly, something would have to be destroyed to protect Dean and Sam, but it wasn't the same. John's focus was now on life rather than death.

Besides, it was kind of nice to have his research assistant back. He could start giving Sam some of the questions that he got asked by other hunters, thus freeing up his time to work on Dean's problem. Sam had real gifts in the arena of research.

Fortunately, Dean would be eighteen before John left, and he was legally eighteen in his Georgia identity. They'd still have to work out the permissions for Sam. He'd take that up with John after the weekend when they could actually do something about it.

"Bobby?" John said, walking into the library. "Sam wants to do the debate team, but I guess that's going to require some driving him about. Until Dean can drive, that's going to fall on you. Do you mind?"

Bobby raised his eyebrows. "Not at all. You're really serious about leaving them here for the whole school year, then?"

"Entirely," John said. "Sam wants it, Dean hasn't said anything, but I'm sure he wants it."

"They both want to be with you, John."

"And I will be here as often as I can be," John said. "I wouldn't leave at all if I didn't have to." He shook his head. "I've missed so much over the years, and there's no way to get any of it back. I want to miss as little as possible from here on in."

Bobby grinned to himself. "Good," he said.


	36. Chapter 36

John felt a projectile smash into the back of his head, and he whirled, aiming his own at center mass on his attacker. The snowball broke and covered Sam's chest with white. Another snowball came whizzing towards him, and John ducked quickly, then raised his hands, shaking his head. "I'm too old for this," he said.

"Come on, Dad!" Sam exclaimed, wheedling.

"Yeah, Mr. Winchester!" cried one of Sam's friends. John hadn't caught his name. Joey or Jimmy or something.

"My old knees aren't up to you guys," John said, grinning.

Dean raised his eyebrows, as if worried that John needed help, and John shook his head, just walking off to sit down where he could watch the fun. They were using some of the alleys of Bobby's yard as cover and having a snowball war. Tiffany had shown up, ostensibly to look for a part for her Nova, but she'd brought another girl and two boys with her. The two boys were apparently friends with Sam, and the two girls were friends with Dean. Shocking, that last bit of intelligence.

Megan shrieked as Dean caught her a blow to the face with a snowball, but she gave as good as she got. Watching them made him feel warm inside, even though his butt was going slowly numb on the car seat he'd selected as a suitable perch.

A sound beside him made him start and he looked over to find that Castiel had appeared next to him on the bench seat. John glanced over at the kids, but no one seemed to have noticed anything. He turned back to Castiel. "You were supposed to come on Wednesday night."

Castiel shrugged. "It was not safe."

"But it is today?"

"Safer," Castiel said, "and necessary." A man of concise words, that angel, John mused. Castiel was gazing across at the snowball fight. "You wish to know why there is interest in your sons from so many quarters."

"You could say that," John said.

Castiel was briefly silent, then he sighed. "I have considered long, and sought revelation, to determine what I could and could not tell you. It has not been easy."

"What do you mean, what you can and can't tell me?" John demanded.

Castiel shrugged very slightly. "There are things no man should know about his future, John Winchester."

"What do you know about my future?"

Castiel shook his head. "I am telling this poorly. Let me begin with Dean's abduction."

"By all means."

"It was not supposed to happen," Castiel said.

John's eyes narrowed. "Zachariah said something like that, too. What's it supposed to mean? Of course it shouldn't have happened, but –"

"No, John, I mean it wasn't _supposed_ to happen. The course of time changed at that moment, and we are none of us where we should be."

John shook his head. "Dean said something about time travel, and the demon raving about it. Is that what you're talking about?"

Castiel grimaced. "I am afraid that this altered time line is a result of actions I took in the year 2008." John blinked at him. A crazy angel was a fearsome prospect. "You see, in that year, I took Dean back in time, to 1973."

John's jaw dropped. "You did what?"

"My memories of the future are occasionally sketchy, but I remember that there were things that happened that he needed to bear witness to."

"What?" John asked, searching his mind for world events of import in 1973.

"The days leading up to the moment you first proposed to Mary Campbell, your death, and the deal she made to bring you back."

John froze. He could not have heard Castiel right. "What are you talking about? I didn't die. Mary's father attacked me, I was knocked out and –"

"That was not Mary's father," Castiel said.

John rolled his eyes. "I knew the man half my life, it was Samuel Campbell."

"It was Samuel Campbell's body, but it was not Samuel Campbell," Castiel said with finality. John was silenced by his certainty. "It was Azazel."

John stared at him in stunned horror. "Azazel?"

Castiel nodded once. "He killed both of her parents and then you, then offered her a deal to bring you back."

John shook his head. It matched what had happened – and Mary's subsequent reactions – better than the facts he'd believed all along had. "What did she trade away?" he asked, a dire realization surfacing in his mind. "She died ten years later, in terrible pain –" His voice broke off at the thought that she might have gone to Hell, a place he couldn't envision as anything but the fire and brimstone of his early church teachings.

Castiel shook his head. "She did not sell her soul to him," he said. "That she died was merely a coincidence."

"But then . . ." A dreadful thought occurred to him. He'd been in the nursery. "Sammy?" he breathed, horrorstruck. Mary couldn't have . . . how could she . . .

Castiel held up a hand. "She did not know that she was offering her child to him. He simply asked for permission to make a visit in ten years' time. Many others were offered the same deal, for various reasons, and all but a very few agreed."

"But what did he do to Sammy?" John asked. "Did Mary stop him?"

"No, she did not," Castiel said. "And I do not know exactly what was done to Sam. I knew . . . I will know in the future, but . . ."

"Cut the crap!" John growled. "You either know or you don't."

"It's not that simple, John. I wish it were."

"So what you're telling me is that when Azazel kidnapped Dean, he changed history. What happened in the real version?"

"Dean and Sam stayed with you until Sam went away to college at eighteen," Castiel said.

John felt a burning sensation in his eyes and blinked back tears. The angel was so sure of himself, so certain. "Is there any way to get that back? To prevent Dean from undergoing all the torture Azazel put him through?"

Castiel was briefly silent, and when he spoke he sounded regretful. "I do not know that you would want to."

"After the hell that demon put my son – my sons – through?" John exclaimed. "Of course I would."

"Hell the place is much worse than the metaphor your kind uses routinely," Castiel said quietly.

John opened his mouth to speak, but then what Castiel had said penetrated his mind. "Hell the place?" he repeated. "It's a real place?"

"It is, and the Dean of the other timeline went there."

John shook his head disbelievingly. "Dean is a good boy, I can't imagine –"

"He did not deserve to go there, John," Castiel said. "He made a deal."

"A deal? With a demon? Why would he do that?"

"To save Sam's life."

John looked up and stared across at his younger son. "Sam nearly died?"

"No," Castiel said. "Sam did die, and Dean brought him back." He shook his head. "This is all moot. Once Azazel's choice was made, this timeline diverged from the other. We are now on our own, moving forward from the past we know."

"Then why do you know what happened in the other one?" John asked. "This doesn't make sense."

"Time is not linear, precisely," Castiel said. "I . . ." He shrugged. "I do not altogether know why I remember the future. I believe, however, that others among the angels do as well."

"Zachariah."

"Yes."

"But . . . if Azazel was interested in Sammy, if he planned things so that he could visit him when he was born –"

"On his six-month birthday," Castiel put in.

"Okay, if his interest was in Sammy, why did he take Dean?"

"Because he met Dean in 1973," Castiel said. "There was a confrontation, and Dean told him that he was from the future, and that he was the one who killed him in that future time."

John blinked and slumped back, looking over at his elder son. At the moment he was dumping snow down Jeremy's back. "Dean kills him?"

"In that timeline, yes. In this timeline there is no way to tell."

Sammy ran across and rescued Jeremy, and the two younger boys ganged up on Dean with repeated snowball hits. "But what's the point?" he asked, shaking his head. "Why make all these deals? There has to have been a reason."

"There was," Castiel said, and then he paused long enough that John was contemplating giving him a smack to see if he was still awake. "He wishes to bring about the Apocalypse."

John gave Castiel a dubious look. "The Apocalypse? You mean _the_ Apocalypse. Biblical?"

"Is there another?" Castiel asked. John couldn't make up his mind if he was serious or sarcastic. "The Apocalypse, John. Lucifer rising, the Four Horsemen, fire, death, destruction."

John's gaze strayed over to his boys again. "What do my sons have to do with the Apocalypse?" he demanded.

Tilting his head in an almost apologetic manner, Castiel said, "In the other timeline, they begin it."

Anger surged through him and he rose sharply to his feet. "That's impossible!"

"Be seated, John, or they will notice us," Castiel said, his eyes darting towards the snowball fight.

John glanced over at the children and subsided into his seat. "My boys would never –"

"They did not know they were doing it, either of them," Castiel replied, and John blinked. "And in many ways they are very different people in this timeline. In others they are much the same." The angel paused, gazing solemnly at the snowball fight. "You and I, John, we must work together to avert the end of days."

John pressed his palm to his forehead. Of all the things he might have expected Castiel to say, this would not have made the list. "What about the other angels? What does Zachariah want out of this?"

Castiel closed his eyes. "He wants to let the Apocalypse start because he believes that our side will win."

"He what?" John exclaimed.

"I am still trying to make sense of the memories I've kept."

"After six years?"

Castiel made a rueful face. "Occasionally it takes current events to cause some of my memories make sense."

"So, what do we do?"

"First of all, Dean and Sam must stay together. They need each other."

"I don't think that's a problem," John said. "You couldn't pry those boys apart with a crow bar."

"Second, no matter what happens, you must not sell your soul to Hell."

"What?" John exclaimed. "Why the hell would I do that?"

Castiel shook his head. "The point is, if one of the boys dies, you must let him go," he said. "Believe me, the alternatives are much worse."

John stared down at his hands, devastated by that entire idea. "How do I –"

"It takes both of them to start the Apocalypse, John."

"Why are my sons the only ones who can start the Apocalypse?"

"Because they are vessels," Castiel said.

"Vessels? What does that mean?"

Castiel gestured at himself. "This is a vessel," he said. "A man named Jimmy."

"You're possessing some poor bastard?" John asked incredulously.

"He is devout and he prayed for this. It is necessary for an angel to gain permission before he can possess a vessel."

"So why does it matter that Sam and Dean are vessels? What's the issue?"

"They are both capable of hosting extremely powerful angels, and the Apocalypse comes down to a fight between Lucifer and Michael."

"You're saying two angels have to go mano a mano, and they need my son's bodies to do it?" Castiel gave a slight shrug. "Like hell."

"I agree."

"How do we stop it?"

"We kill as many of these evil sons of bitches as we can." Castiel replied. "For that, we'll need the Colt."

John snorted. "Well, that's great, where is the magical demon-killing gun?"

"I do not know."

A notion occurred to John, and he grinned. "I've got an idea of a way to find it, but it will involve me hitting the road." He grimaced. "You'll have to stay here, I suppose. You need to watch the boys."

"For the time being, unless I can find another angel that I can trust."

John nodded. "Well, then, we've got a plan." He looked out at the kids, who were now building a snowman as a team. "And I can trust that you've got their backs."

"You can," Castiel said. He, too, turned to watch the fun. "You know, they never had anything like this in the other timeline."

"Like what?"

"A home," Castiel said. "Friends."

"Well, my sons will always have that now." He watched again for a moment, then turned back towards Castiel, but he was gone. John shook his head, rose, and crossed to the snowman. His knees could stand that.

The End

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Dear Readers, thank you so much for reading _Left Turn of Fate_ , Book 1 of _Highways and Byways_.  Thank you to everyone who read, but thanks especially to everyone who reviewed.  I loved writing this novel, so it means a lot to me to hear how much you enjoyed reading it, and knowing which bits stuck out is particularly nice.  Obviously, I love Sam and Dean, so it was a joy to be able to play their brotherhood in a different light.  

**Still a work in progress:** _Warning! Bumpy Road Ahead_ , Book 2 of _Highways and Byways,_ sequel to _Left Turn of Fate_. Wherein we witness Dean's first birthday party since he turned four, and we discover a hidden danger of Dean's past. Also, wherein Dean Hunter's identity as Dean Winchester is revealed to his teachers and classmates, i.e. everybody finds out that _he_ is the kid who was kidnapped by a psycho. Nothing can go wrong there, right?  More Trish, more angels, and the FBI takes an interest.  **This won't be posted for a while, but it is coming.**

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  **Starting Next Week - Quick Preview  
**

**_Azazel's Plan B, Book 1: Family_ **

Sam balanced two bags of groceries in one arm, a gallon of milk dangling from those fingers, and snaked his key out of his front pocket. After wrangling the door open, he stepped through and kicked it shut behind him, figuring he'd lock it in a minute. He walked across the old rag rug that Jessica had brought from home and went into the kitchen to deposit the grocery bags on the counter. He opened the fridge and put the milk inside, then started rifling through the bags to find the meat and veggies and other things that needed to be refrigerated.

He had to have everything perfect tonight. In his sock drawer a small box awaited the right moment, and he thought the time had come. Nervously contemplating his plans for the evening, he initially took his unease for bachelor jitters, but then he heard a noise coming from the living room.

Dropping into a crouch, he reached up and slipped a knife soundlessly from the wood block, then crept towards the kitchen door. He could hear loud footsteps, almost as if the intruder was announcing himself. "Who's there?" he asked, reaching into his pocket with his free hand and pulling out his cell phone. Silently flipping it open, he dialed three digits and hovered his thumb over the Send button.

"Sam?" The familiar voice brought all of Sam's buried rage to the forefront again. He snapped the phone shut, dropped the knife to his side and stepped around the wall that separated the kitchen from the living room. "What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded, glaring at his father. Dad looked good, not nearly as old as he actually was, and all the anger and rage Sam had felt during their last confrontation came back in a rush, making it hard for him to keep his composure. He locked it down and gazed coldly at his father.

"Nice to see you, too, Sammy," John said, his eyes taking everything in, from the phone to the knife and Sam's casual attire. "Calling the cops, huh? What if I'd been something they couldn't handle?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "It's Sam, and strangely enough, I haven't seen anything supernatural since I left. Why are you here?" Shoving the phone in his pocket, he crossed his arms, careful of the knife.

"We have to talk," John replied.

"What happened to 'if you leave, you'd better stay gone'?" Sam asked bitterly. His father didn't immediately respond. Shaking his head, Sam went back into the kitchen, put the knife away and returned to his groceries. "Look, Dad, I've got things to do. We haven't spoken in three years, why change the pattern now?"

"This is important," John said.

"Right." Sam snorted. "It's important to you, therefore it must be the most earth shattering news of the century. I'm busy, Dad. Having my father show up out of the blue and break into my apartment was not in my plans for today."

"I wanted to talk to you about that," John said, and Sam looked at him dubiously. "That lock is a joke. You can't trust your safety to something that chintzy."

"It came with the apartment," Sam replied shortly.

"Then you should have replaced it."

"Whatever. Is that the important thing you had to talk to me about? Because if so, I've got –"

His father spoke abruptly, breaking into Sam's rant. "Dean is missing."

Three words, simple, direct, and Sam felt them like a punch in the gut.

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_I will start posting this 6 days from today. I hope you will enjoy it as much as_ Left Turn of Fate _. I've put the single story into a series so that folks can subscribe to the series so that when_ Bumpy Road _is ready, they'll get emails when I start posting._ _  
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